


No Good Deed

by EvilFuzzy9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Draco Malfoy Being a Brat, Gen, Gen Work, Mudblood, Purebloods, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6386167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzy9/pseuds/EvilFuzzy9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actions have consequences. Between provocation and punishment lies an impulse decision and a stroke of luck, whether good or bad, that will lead to results which few would have dreamed of and fewer still would have hoped for. Whether it is fair and whether it is right is entirely subjective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" snarled Ron Weasley, his ears turning violently red.

_BANG!_

A jet of sparks flew from the tip of a careworn, spellotaped wand clutched in a freckly hand, awkward and gangling fingers wrapped around the handle. Green, beige, and yellow in an ugly mix of colors viscerally reminiscent of bile and pus, the sparks scattered through the air with a fizzing noise, shortly followed by a plume of smoke and another loud bang.

Draco barely knew what hit him.

He staggered back quite suddenly, the light and smoke quickly fading and dissipating. His eyes were bulging in their sockets when it cleared, and he clutched a hand to his throat; a normally pale face had turned a distinct shade of olive. Gagging, choking, he stared in a repugnant mixture of shock and fury at his assailant's equally livid expression.

Coughing and hacking, Draco Malfoy doubled over in front of everyone and belched up a mouthful of fat, slimy slugs.

The quidditch pitch exploded in an uproar.

The Slytherin team howled in outrage, Marcus Flint growling trollishly and swelling up to an impressive size. Burly, green clad beaters like moss-covered boulders grabbed their bats, while the other equally large and menacing members of the Slytherin team whipped out their wands and pointed them at Ron.

The Gryffindor team was quick to react. Fred and George muscled their way free of restraint and moved to cover their brother, expressions fierce as they trained their wands on Flint. Katie, Alicia, and Angelina were just as swift to take up their own wands, the tips sparking and hissing in an unspoken threat.

Gryffindor and Slytherin were at a standoff on the pitch, sending black looks and silent warnings at their respective counterparts. Tension had permeated the air in a matter of seconds, rivalry and mutual antipathy rapidly evolving into nearly open aggression.

Harry could only stare in shock as all of this happened, so fast and so extreme that he frankly had no idea what to think. One minute it had quite been like any other encounter with Malfoy, the blond snidely drawling insults, when Hermione had sniped back about him buying his way onto the Slytherin quidditch team, provoking Malfoy to redden and venomously retort.

_"You stay out of this, you filthy little mudblood!"_

Mudblood.

Just the way it had been spoken was enough to tell Harry that this was something very foul, and the gasps and cries of indignation from the nearer Gryffindor players only cemented that impression. Still, the violence of Ron's reaction seemed remarkable—if not in the sense of it being out of character, for the youngest male Weasley had always been hot tempered and impulsive at the best of times.

But Harry could not remember Ron ever actually jinxing someone in anger before, even if this was not necessarily for a lack of trying when it came to Malfoy. Hermione, for her part, was paler than the Hogwarts ghosts as she gripped Ron's elbow, looking at him in a mixture of worry and disbelief.

"You shouldn't have done that!" she squeaked shrilly, horrified. "Do you want to get expelled, Ron?!"

Malfoy retched and spat another mouthful of slugs onto the grass before Ron could give an answer. Draco was livid, and despite the indignity of his position there was something undeniably chilling about the look he shot them, his eyes glaring daggers keen and frigid.

"You'll pay for this, Weasley," he darkly muttered. "You, Potter, and that uppity mudbleargh—"

Draco doubled over halfway through the final word, gagging yet again, before expectorating an especially corpulent slug. Mucus dribbled from his mouth, a clear and vile-smelling secretion that spattered nauseatingly over the front of his undoubtedly expensive and brand new quidditch robes. His face twisted in disgust, and indignation smoldered in his eyes.

Fred and George sniggered despite the tension, amused by Malfoy's humiliating position. There was a slight glimmer of pride in their eyes as they glanced at their youngest brother. A fuming Slytherin chaser snapped his wrist, seeing this, and produced a jet of violet light from his wand.

Alicia Spinnet flicked her own wand, and the light was stopped a foot from its target. It burst harmlessly into sparks as though it had just impacted an invisible shield, and bolts of electricity flashed over a transparent bubble, a lens of air that rippled and wavered before dispelling.

She glowered coolly at the one who had shot the jinx.

Katie and Angelina advanced menacingly, flanking their fellow chaser with wands held aloft. Wisps of ominously colored smoke rose in curling, languorous tendrils from the points of their wands, aglow as the tips of burning faggots. Sparks popped out once or twice, fizzing like fireworks about to go off.

Harry looked worriedly from Malfoy, to Ron, to Hermione, and to his fellow Gryffindor quidditch players. Normally he would have felt a rush a glee, a mixture of schadenfreude and vindication to see Draco Malfoy knocked down a peg and so afflicted. Right now, however, he felt none of that.

The only thing this scene brought to Harry's mind was a grim recollection of Dumbledore's warning on the evening of their first day back at Hogwarts. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach, and he pulled anxiously close to Ron as though hoping to shield him from retaliation. Malfoy deserved to be hexed a hundred times over, but the two of them had been warned quite clearly that if they got into any more trouble this year...

He shivered, barely noticing as Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood got into a fistfight—the Slytherin captain's sheer bulk and brute strength lent themselves better to pugilism than curses, and he was infamously dull besides, so Flint had chosen to throw himself at Wood and initiate the fight on his own terms rather than wait for conflict to erupt naturally. Harry wasn't even paying attention.

He didn't notice George swishing while Fred flicked, shooting out all sorts of nastily amusing hexes at the Slytherin team, or the Gryffindor chasers transfiguring every body part they could get a bead on. Nor, likewise, did he notice Hermione pulling on his collar and dragging him and Ron away as jinxes began to fly in earnest.

Harry's mind was a jumble of thoughts, swirling around and around like socks in the Dursley's washing machine. He thought of the trouble he and Ron had gotten into, flying the Ford Anglia to Hogwarts, and the warning they had been given.

If they broke any more rules, they would be expelled.

Dueling was forbidden at Hogwarts, wasn't it? So, surely, was hexing one's schoolmates. He and Ron were on thin ice already, and Malfoy wasn't the kind of person to let this sort of thing go. He would tell, and he would spin the story to make it sound as though he was a blameless martyr.

The only hope in Harry's mind was that, whatever Malfoy's snarl of "mudblood" had meant, it was vile and provocative enough to excuse Ron's actions.

But even that might not be sufficient if Professor Snape got involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is an idea I've been entertaining for a few weeks, a "what if" scenario based in CoS, which was probably one of my favorite of the HP books back when I was a kid. This author's note would be longer if I wasn't so sleepy and incapable of thinking of stuff to put down.
> 
> Updated: 1-15-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	2. Chapter 2

Severus Snape's robes fluttered behind him as he paced up and down the hall, a fierce gleam in his eyes. He turned and came to a standstill before the headmaster, who seemed to have been conversing with an ugly stone gargoyle. There was a dark expression on Snape's face, his lips curling unpleasantly. He spoke stiffly and sharply.

"You know what I think should be done with them, Headmaster. From their first day here, Potter and his friends have shown nothing but contempt for the rules. They have flouted the authority of their teachers at every turn, breaking curfew, sassing instructors, _sticking their noses where they oughtn't_." He sneered. "We must not allow the students to think we will make exceptions for such deplorable behavior. We have to put a foot down."

Coal black eyes shone with a piercing light, and Snape looked icily askance at Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

The other Gryffindors were in the hospital wing, along with the entirety of the Slytherin team, getting treated by a most cantankerous Madam Pomfrey for a wide assortment of injuries and afflictions. The magical melee that engulfed the pitch earlier that morning had gone on for several minutes before a teacher was able to intervene, spells of all sorts getting traded back and forth between the two rival teams. None of them had gotten away without some manner of hexed blemish or disfigured appendage.

Compared to the others, however, Harry and his friends were nearly unscathed. Hermione had quick been on her toes and pulled Ron and Harry out of the way before things could devolve completely into chaos, although she was not quite fast enough for them to completely escape being hit by a few stray jinxes. Ron's cheek was an ugly shade of purple, and Harry's ear closely resembled a misshapen kumquat. Hermione herself stood a tad gingerly, still a mite bowlegged from a miscast but well aimed _tarantellegra_.

Eyes glittering with barely veiled malice, Snape lingered on the trio of second years for a long, breathless moment. His lips twitched, and Harry fancied that the professor was suppressing a triumphant sneer. Snape had caught them not far from the site of the brawl, and he had apprehended them even before proceeding to break up the fight, assuming (unfortunately shrewdly) that they'd had something to do with the sudden hullabaloo.

The scuffle lost both houses a fair deal of points, but Slytherin still got out of it better than Gryffindor. Snape's inquiry had been short and one-sided, naturally favoring the reports of his own house over any contradicting accounts. And of course, the members of the Slytherin team were quick to point to Gryffindor as the aggressors, and no amount of protests from Wood and the others were able to convince Snape otherwise.

So here they stood in the early morning: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger awaiting the headmaster's judgement.

Dumbledore himself stood in long, midnight blue robes that twinkled with sequins like stars patterned after the constellations, his bright periwinkle eyes flicking shrewdly over three very guilty-feeling students. Hermione was chalk white under the venerable wizard's gaze, clearly certain that all three of them would be expelled for this. Harry did not feel much more confident than she looked, knobbly knees shaking well beyond his control. Ron's ears were a bright pink, clashing horribly with his fiery red hair.

"Really, Severus?" said Dumbledore patiently. "I must note that their other teachers seem to think rather differently. I have heard nothing but the highest praise for Miss Granger, in particular."

"And Potter?" said Snape, his tone sour. The Potions professor did not seem to like anyone who wasn't in Slytherin, and he particularly disliked Gryffindors on principle, but he actively _loathed_ Harry. Snape would never pass up a chance to see the boy or his friends expelled from Hogwarts, and he seemed to relish criticizing and penalizing them for even the slightest missteps.

"I am well aware what you think of Harry, Professor," Dumbledore replied. He sounded faintly disapproving. "And I cannot help but wonder, therefore, if those feelings might not be clouding your judgement on this matter."

Severus glared coldly at the headmaster. His eyes flashed, and his posture seemed to subtly straighten. He pulled himself up, looking nothing short of defiant.

"Lucius will echo my complaints. You know he will," said Snape in a warning tone. "He and the board of governors are sure to be far less indulgent of your sentimentality."

Dumbledore was unperturbed.

Harry watched as this continued, Snape and Dumbledore verbally sparring and staring at one another in turn. For several minutes now, the two of them had carried on in this manner, debating each other in a way that seemed to belie a deeper, unspoken argument. It felt like there was a world of difference between what they said and what they _meant_ , but Harry couldn't make heads or tails of the latter.

He looked furtively at Hermione, and then at Ron. The former was still stiff and pale. Her mouth worked feebly open and closed, as though she were mumbling to herself in shock or attempting to voice half formed protests. Ron looked miserably grim, in turn, and his hands were shaking. Bleakly he fingered his wand, a nervous gesture that made Harry think unbidden of Hagrid.

The enormous gamekeeper of Hogwarts was a good friend of theirs, and he had been expelled from the school in his third year, a long time ago. Harry knew that Hagrid's wand had been snapped upon his expulsion, the man completely banned from using magic. Not that this stopped him from doing what he could with that flowery pink umbrella, an object about which Harry held his share of suspicions in regards to its relationship with Hagrid's old wand, but...

...what would happen to _them_ if they were expelled? Harry dreaded the thought of getting sent back to the Dursleys, and from the look on her face Hermione seemed equally fearful of being forced to sever contact with the magical world. That was a terrible enough thought just by itself, and Harry could not imagine what he would do if he could never come back to Hogwarts. Aside from the Burrow, this school was the only place he had ever felt truly at home.

He couldn't stand the thought, but what could they do? As long as Snape was here, their chances of getting out of trouble seemed terribly slim. And Harry could not entirely shake away thoughts of the warning Dumbledore had given him and Ron at the start of the year. Hermione might get away with only a detention, but he and Ron were already on thin ice. It seemed certain that they would be expelled.

Snape did not really care who was responsible for starting the fight. He would not care what sort of language Malfoy had used. The only thing that mattered to him was the chance to kick Harry out of Hogwarts, even if he had not strictly done anything wrong at all. Harry had tried to defend himself and protest the accusations of starting the fight, but it was to no avail. Malfoy knew as well as they did that Snape particularly despised Harry, and he had thus gleefully fingered him as the culprit.

And even if they _could_ get Dumbledore to listen, would he really be willing to get Ron in trouble just to save himself from expulsion?

...No.

Harry felt revolted at the very thought, and at his own fleeting temptation to do precisely that. Ron was his friend, the first friend his own age that he had ever made. This was a precious bond, as dear as his friendship with Hagrid. He could never...

"It wasn't Harry."

Ron spoke up, interrupting Snape and Dumbledore, and Harry's thoughts. The former sneered and shot a venomous look at Ron, as though silently and scathingly telling him to butt out before he got into any more trouble. Dumbledore was unreadable by comparison, although Harry thought he could see a faintest glimmer of something not unlike pride in his eyes.

"Don't lie, Weasley," said Snape icily. "You're just trying to get Potter out of trouble. Malfoy already told me—"

"He called Hermione a _mudblood_ ," Ron fiercely interjected. He glared at Snape, his gaze so thunderous that even the fearsome head of Slytherin faltered. Or was it his words that did it? He spoke softly, so coldly defiant that it barely sounded at all like the Ron they knew.

Either way, Snape's lips went thin and his eyes narrowed. He gave Ron a searching look, a coldly piercing glance that would have made most students quail in terror. Ron stood his ground and met Snape's eyes head on, in contrast, although he looked rather like he was about to vomit up a slug or two of his own from the effort.

For a moment, Harry expected Snape to dismiss this claim out of hand, as he usually dismissed any claims of wrongdoing on the part of his Slytherin students. And indeed, for a moment it looked like he very much wanted to do exactly that, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the presence of Professor Dumbledore beside him that did it, but Snape held his tongue and simply furrowed his brow after several seconds of staring at Ron.

Finally, Snape broke eye contact with a disdainful sniff. He harrumphed, but it sounded oddly halfhearted, and he looked distinctly peeved as he did so. He said nothing more, but turned and stalked off with a mutter of something that sounded awfully like _"incautious fool,"_ under his breath.

Dumbledore met Snape's eyes as he left. Some unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them.

"I see," said Dumbledore, turning to eye Ron. "And you hexed him in response to this, Ronald?"

Ron gulped and nodded, looking awfully feeble. The flash of temper had receded, and he now appeared to greatly regret saying anything. Maybe it was the way Dumbledore was looking at him that did it, that gaze of quiet disappointment so much more effective than any lecture or screaming howler.

"Y-Yeah," Ron stammered. "I did."

Harry's mouth felt dry. He very much wanted to leap to Ron's defense, but the words would not come. This was all truthful, but that did not make him feel any better.

"You should not have done that," Dumbledore said, and he looked very tired as he spoke. "Responding to bigotry with violence does nothing but breed further prejudice and contempt. Furthermore, Hogwarts does not tolerate fighting between students. I have already warned you once this year. Do you remember, Mister Weasley?"

Ron nodded, unable to speak.

"Surely you don't mean to _expel_ him?!" Hermione blurted out, unable to help herself.

She turned bright red when Dumbledore looked at her, and she covered her mouth as though dearly wishing she hadn't spoken at all. The headmaster smiled comfortingly, but there was a hint of regret in his eyes.

"You three met Lucius Malfoy in Diagon Alley, did you not?" he said. At the astonished expressions on the trio's faces, he shook his head. "Don't look so surprised! Hagrid told me what happened..."

"So just because of that, you're going to expel Ron?" Hermione said indignantly, pinkening further. "Just because Malfoy's father is really influential? I know Ron shouldn't have done it, but surely you don't have to go that far!"

"There are many reasons to consider, and many choices to be made," Dumbledore said placatingly, holding up a hand to silence her. "It does not generally pay to be too hasty, but I _did_ warn your friends what would happen if they got into any more trouble. Ron and Harry should both remember this."

"They didn't do anything," Ron interjected, sounding insistent. Awkwardly indicating Harry and Hermione, he swallowed, looking very green. "They're innocent."

A pause.

"Yet I notice that you say nothing in your own defense," Dumbledore remarked in a soft voice, inclining his head and eyeing Ron thoughtfully.

Ron met Dumbledore's half moon spectacles, and the penetrating gaze beneath.

"I hexed Malfoy," he said stubbornly, eyes smoldering. "I already told you what he called Hermione."

"Yes, indeed," said Dumbledore, frowning. He sighed. "Very well. Go along to Madam Pomfrey, then, you three. I must owl your families and inform them of what has happened. Professor McGonagall will want to see you as well, I am sure."

Ron gulped, looking abjectly miserable, but with a glance at his friends he straightened his back and grit his teeth before starting the walk to the hospital wing.

Harry protested weakly, trying to think of some loophole, some reason for Ron not to be expelled. Hermione looked torn between echoing Harry and following Ron, and she waffled for several moments until he was nearly out of sight.

At last, she broke from her indecision and ran after him.

Harry, however, stayed behind. He wanted to go with Hermione and Ron, but... he had something to ask, first. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton as he formed the words, and his tongue was terribly unwieldy in its movements.

"Professor, what... what _does_ mudblood mean?" he inquired, feeling a mixture of regret and determination.

Dumbledore stopped, and he looked at Harry thoughtfully. There was something almost rueful in his eyes, a touch of pity as he glanced at him. Slowly, in a precise and measured tone, he answered.

"It is a pejorative, Harry," he said gently. Seeing the look of confusion on Harry's face, he added, "An insult, I mean: one of the foulest and most hateful of its kind in the wizarding world. Under any other circumstances, I would have docked you and your friends points immediately for speaking it aloud in my presence. As it is, I would sternly advise you not to repeat it."

"But what _is_ it?" Harry asked insistently. "What does it _mean?_ "

Dumbledore frowned, looking for a moment as though something significantly more sour than a lemon drop had found its way into his mouth. His mustache bristled while his lips pursed, and he absentmindedly stroked his long, silvery beard.

"It is... a derogatory term for a person of nonmagical heritage," the headmaster reticently elaborated, frowning as though the very thought left him slightly vexed. "Among those who value before all reason and empirical evidence to the contrary the alleged superiority of so-called ' _pure_ ' wizarding bloodlines, it is seen as the worst thing you can call a person. It is a nasty label, an insult against muggleborn witches and wizards everywhere."

Harry stared, the wheels in his mind slowly turning as he processed this. He felt as though he were a drowning man grasping at straws to pull himself out of the water, except that he was not the one in danger here. It would therefore perhaps be more accurate to say that he felt like someone looking for something—anything—with which to pull a drowning friend back onto dry land.

"It's bad, then?" he said a little lamely, the words only half formed in his brain as he started to speak. "What Malfoy said, I mean. He... er..."

Dumbledore looked at Harry a touch remorsefully. Gently, yet firmly, he spoke.

"As is what Ronald did in response. Words can have great power, Harry, and such hateful language as that is most certainly _not_ tolerated in this school... but neither is hexing one's classmates." A second later, he added more softly still, "I appreciate what you are trying to do for your friend, but I am not in a position to bend the rules on this matter. Professor Snape was right about one thing, at least."

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head, then, before dismissing Harry with a gesture. His expression showed that he would brook no further questions or debate on this matter.

Disappointed, Harry left. He was in a daze, his thoughts disarrayed.

_Ron..._

He almost couldn't believe it.

_...Ron was going to be expelled?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So that's a thing. Just finished another playthrough of Fire Emblem: Awakening, finally seeing the last bit of the story. M'brain is a bit groggy, therefore. Also I suppose it's worth noting that as of a couple weeks ago I own physical copies of every volume of the Naruto manga; bought the third and final box set almost as soon as it was available, haha.
> 
> Updated: 1-17-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	3. Chapter 3

Dobby was not a good elf. His masters and the mistress told him this often enough, when they deigned to address him at all. Oh, he did his duties well enough, keeping out of sight while taking care of things, but he also was often having to punish himself for tiny mistakes or fits of disobedience. It was a regular occurrence, so frequent that they found it more suspicious when he _wasn't_ engaging in some manner of self-flagellation on a near hourly basis.

So Mistress Narcissa did not bother to ask why he was wringing his ears and biting his fingers in between pouring out her morning tea and bringing her the paper. Unless it was to reprimand him or give him an order, Dobby's masters did not speak to him. No, indeed! The Malfoys would sooner strike up a conversation with the peacocks in the lawn than talk to their house elf.

He might as well have been invisible as he disappeared with a pop, then reappeared with a tray of biscuits in his hand. Narcissa did not thank Dobby, or acknowledge him in any way, but daintily grabbed a biscuit and took a bite.

Even her slightest motions overflowed with a haughty, aristocratic mien, performing every slightest task as though she was posing for a portrait. Narcissa Malfoy was an attractive woman, and she took nearly as much pride in that as in the purity of her blood. It would not do to mar her self-acclaimed perfection by devouring her food like some kind of wild animal, no, not in the slightest.

Dobby bowed low as the mistress's eyes passed in his direction, Narcissa idly scanning the room. It was luxuriously furnished, yet there was something cold and austere about it—or so Dobby thought. But Narcissa seemed perfectly content, at least as much as she ever showed any sort of emotion beyond haughty disdain, and she took another sip of her tea before unfolding the paper.

"Rubbish," she drawled scornfully, looking at the front page. It was a human interest piece accompanied by a photo of a fat, smiling witch and several shyly waving children. "They _will_ print anything these days, won't they?"

"Yes, mistress, they will," Dobby said, not that he expected Narcissa to pay him any mind. "They are not having any standards at all, mistress, no they aren't."

Narcissa turned the page as though she hadn't heard Dobby speak, flicking her eyes over an article about political matters of some sort or other. She skimmed it disinterestedly. Then, sniffing as though she smelled something very unpleasant, Narcissa silently bade Dobby to leave. She would call him when she had further need of his services.

Dobby bowed even lower still, his nose bending against the floor and his ears draping over the sides of his bald little head. Wordlessly, he turned on the spot and disapparated.

Returning to the kitchen, Dobby checked on the roast. It was marinating well, and would be ready in time for dinner. The potatoes were dutifully peeling themselves one by one, as well, and with a snap of his fingers he summoned a bag of carrots.

Although not permitted to carry wands, and not especially powerful as far as magical creatures went, house elves were fairly skilled in utilitarian spells. They could levitate objects, animate the inanimate, summon and banish at will. They had to be able to do this, with their small bodies. While in numbers they could afford to do chores manually, most households kept only one or two elves in their employ at a time.

Dobby was about average as far as house elves went, and he could work domestic spells about as well as any wizard... not that he had the acquaintance of many wizards to use such magic, of course. His masters were very wealthy and very proud, and they saw menial chores as unworthy of their powers. Laundry alone did the Malfoys do for themselves, for that was the one task they would not entrust to Dobby.

Of course, to say they trusted him in _any_ capacity would be most overgenerous. The Malfoys did not think so highly of their house elf as to honor him with such consideration; he was not at all a proper being in their eyes. It would be closer to the truth to say that they viewed him much the same way muggles might view their electrical appliances. Dobby was little more important than a microwave oven or a vacuum cleaner in the Malfoys' eyes—not that they knew what either of those things were.

If not for need they would never heed him, and they rarely noticed his presence unless it was to reprimand or command him. They did not care what he heard them say, or saw them do; not as they might have cared with a human maid or servant. It never entered into their consideration that it might possibly _matter_ what the house elf knew of their affairs.

Because of this, Dobby knew many things about his masters: terrible things, dark and awful secrets to curdle the blood.

The Malfoys were not good people.

Dobby knew that his masters were bad wizards. Indeed, many might even call them plain evil. Master Lucius had served He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his power, and not under any compulsion or bewitchment, whatever he may have claimed while on trial. No, Lucius Malfoy had followed the Dark Lord freely and proudly, believing fervently in all of the horrible things You-Know-Who preached.

That had been a terrible time for Dobby. House elves could live twice the span of wizards, thrice as long as muggles, but even if he saw another two hundred years Dobby did not think he would ever again live through times so dark and miserable. Not unless He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were to rise again and seize power for good, and if such a thing were to happen then a swift death would be preferable to further service under the Malfoys.

At least nowadays so long as Dobby punished himself promptly, his master and mistress would not bother to _crucio_ him for his mistakes. Not openly, at least. The worst and cruelest of their friends were locked away, and with them and their master had gone something of their former boldness. Master Lucius was more cautious about what he did even in the privacy of his own home, and he only subjected Dobby to the old punishments for his most severe errors.

But just because the dark times were over, that did not mean evil things no longer happened. His masters were bad wizards, but they were free, as were many other wizards just as bad as them. And Master Lucius had plans, Dobby knew, plans to unleash something terrible at Hogwarts. The Chamber of Secrets would be opened, the Dark Lord's evil let loose on unsuspecting students.

Dobby knew of this much, and despite all his oaths as a house elf, all the old and powerful magics binding him and his masters by blood and stead, he had boldly and perhaps foolishly striven to save at least one person from this terror. For he knew of the one who had vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when all others had failed, the one who had freed so many of his kind from the worst of their torture and suffering.

The Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter.

And Dobby had thought, Dobby had _prayed_ , that if nothing else he could at least keep Harry away from Hogwarts, away from the dire plot that was assuredly soon to unfold. He had done everything in his power, nay, far beyond what he should have been able to do.

With determination enough to strain even the mental fetters of his upbringing and oaths, he had acted without the knowledge of his masters, doing everything he could think of to keep Harry Potter safe. Yet, despite all of his efforts and all of his hardships, Dobby had failed. Harry Potter was in the one place where he would be at the greatest risk, where Slytherin's monster would soon be set upon all of impure blood.

For a time after learning this, Dobby despaired. And that misery had continued until this very morning, when Dobby had overheard his master making an angry floo call. With large ears able to hear summons from many leagues away, he had eavesdropped on the conversation to learn something which kindled his hopes anew.

Much of it went over his head, but there was one thing he could make out and understand. Master Draco had been hexed in school. He had gotten into a fight with Harry Potter or one of his friends, and from the sound of it Master Lucius intended to see someone expelled for this.

 _"I have never been so insulted,"_ Lucius had said, _"to hear that the name of Malfoy should garner this little respect even in that haven of mudbloods and muggle-lovers. It is an outrage, and an affront to true wizards everywhere. Albus Dumbledore is the worst thing to ever happen to Hogwarts."_

Dobby shuddered to think of it, for he loved and admired everything his master hated about Dumbledore, but in Master Lucius's anger there lay an opportunity. A house elf would never dream to sway their master's counsel, of course, but all house elves prided themselves on knowing their masters inside and out. Dobby knew his master's temperament, knew how Lucius's moods might affect his decisions, and how Dobby might through failure or success in his daily routines nudge Lucius's temper this way or that.

If he did his job too well, his master's ire would cool amidst the comforts of home, the ease of luxury which could so effortlessly snuff all motivations save greed. If he did it too poorly, conversely, his master's ire would fall on him instead, and spend itself ere he could convene with the other governors.

But, if Dobby made _just enough_ mistakes to worsen his master's mood without attracting more to himself than the usual fleeting black look as he set to banging his elbows or stubbing his toes... Well, not that Dobby would ever DREAM to make an intentional mistake in his duties, but if he allowed his mind to wander at certain points then he was bound to bungle a task or two, surely.

And if Harry Potter was forced to leave Hogwarts and return to the safety of the old blood magic bound between him and his muggle relations, then it would be worth even a Cruciatus or two in punishment.

* * *

It was with the deepest regret that Dumbledore entrusted the letter for Molly and Arthur into the care of a school owl and sent it on its way.

Bleakly, he watched the bird soar off into the morning air, wings beating at its sides as it took flight.

He did not look forward to this. He would have dearly wished to avoid it at all costs. But already he had received two owls from members of the board of governors, short and straightforward letters addressing the incident which had only an hour earlier come to his own attention.

Albus Dumbledore was by no means a strict disciplinarian. In all honesty, he was rather often too lax on rule breakers, and too quick to pity. Such was the burden of strong empathy and a keen mind, the ability to see situations from many points of view and deduce reasonable and sympathetic explanations for all but the worst and most antisocial kinds of behavior.

He understood why Ronald hexed young Malfoy. He also understood somewhat of why Draco had used such language in the first place. He did not _approve_ of either one's actions, but he did not relish the idea of penalizing them either. Still, it was nonetheless part of his responsibility as headmaster to see punishment meted out as fairly as possible.

Indeed, he had gone over Severus's head in this case. Dumbledore disliked handing out detentions and demerits, and usually he left the punishment of students to their heads of house. Lucius was an... _old friend_ of Snape's, however, and it would be complicated for Severus to punish Draco for calling Ms Granger that detestable word, not least because of Snape's own history in that regard.

And when a fierce looking eagle owl flew in through his office window, Albus knew for certain that Lucius was up to his old games. How wearisome. He did so detest the kind of politics that man employed, the bribery, veiled threats, and coercion. Already he could guess well enough what the letter would be saying, and what would be said in the letters to come.

With a tired sigh, accepting and opening the message airily presented by the Malfoy's owl, Dumbledore turned his thoughts to the pair of forms sitting on his desk. Even as he skimmed his eyes over the contents Lucius's letter—which were everything he had expected and dreaded to see—Albus wearily mused that he did not want to do this. He was a firm believer in forgiveness and second chances, and he saw no punishment worse than depriving a child of the chance to learn and grow and become a witch or wizard.

Yet if his hand was forced, as indeed it seemed it had been, he could and he would exact the strictest penalty. Although he greatly loathed having to do so, the detached and analytical part of his mind assured him that this was necessary. Sometimes, examples had to be made.

Blue eyes fell over the text on the two sheets of parchment lying in an otherwise clear space atop his desk.

_For cursing a schoolmate with the Slug-Vomiting Hex, in addition to the previous offenses of flying one (1) automobile from King's Cross Station to Hogwarts, no less than seven (7) successive violations of the international statute of secrecy, and traumatic damages to one (1) rare and endangered whomping willow, Ronald Bilius Weasley shall be expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, pending a review of his record by heads of house Minerva McGonagall, Pomona Sprout, Filius Flitwick, and Severus Snape._

_Signed,_   
_Headmaster Albus Dumbledore_

And beside this notice was another.

_Draco Malfoy shall serve three months detention under the supervision of Professor Charity Burbage for verbal assault of a classmate with inflammatory language (see addendum to the list of unacceptable words in the official staff handbook, reference number 1,326: "mudblood"). Any further such offenses during this period will be grounds for suspension._

_Signed,_   
_Headmaster Albus Dumbledore_

Despite himself, a small part of Albus almost wished he could be stricter in Malfoy's punishment. But aside from violating curfew once the previous year, Draco had an effectively spotless record, and this was his first offense of the school year besides. It would be difficult to justify anything harsher.

Quietly sighing, unheard by all but Fawkes, who rested on his perch and watched him with a doleful stare, Dumbledore tapped the two papers with his wand. This prompted them to emit a sound like the tinkling of a bell, then glow a faint purple.

With that, it was official.

Now there was only to wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is an idea I've been entertaining for a few weeks, a "what if" scenario based in CoS, which was probably one of my favorite of the HP books back when I was a kid. This author's note would be longer if I wasn't so sleepy and incapable of thinking of stuff to put down.
> 
> Updated: 1-15-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur Weasley had not had the best day at work. There had been an inquiry at the Ministry, and his department had been its focus. Auditors had perused every file, every report, every last bit of ink-marked parchment to pass through the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office in the last year, and they had done so with a sort of bureaucratic zeal that had seen much better-connected men than Arthur tossed out on their aft ends.

A part of him was still almost surprised that he had not lost his job outright. The rest of him however, at least academically, knew that he could not officially be too severely penalized for what he had done with that old Ford Anglia.

He had, after all, written the very laws on these matters in just such a way as to provide a loophole for his continued tinkering and experimentation. The auditors had not found any significant discrepancies in his department's records, either—just a few minor misspellings in unimportant interdepartmental memos, and a solitary misplaced decimal point ultimately put down to clerical error on the part of a junior arithmancer in accounting.

On the other hand, of course, many of the higher ups in the ministry were of the sort who took rather too much pride in their status as witches and wizards, and they saw Arthur's fascination with non-magical technologies as a vulgar eccentricity, something inappropriate for a _"proper"_ wizard. The undersecretary to the minister, in particular, had seemed very contemptuous of his work, presiding over the inquiry on Fudge's behalf.

So, although Arthur could not be punished for any real violations of the law, there had still been penalties of other sorts. He had still been fined, and Molly would really needed to work her magic to stretch out their food budget. Thank heavens the kids were all at school by now, or that could be tricky.

It may have possible to magically increase a given quantity of food—duplicating a loaf of bread several times over, for instance—but those items which could rot, molder, or otherwise spoil did not have their shelf lives extended by this process. If you duplicated a jug of milk a day from going sour, you would simply wind up with two jugs of nearly-curdled milk. Preserved foods and nonspoiling ingredients could last the frugal witch or wizard a very long time, but if they wanted to eat anything fresh then they had to visit the market like everyone else.

Arthur did not exactly expect to come home to a feast. Even aside from the tight budget, with just him and Molly at home, there wasn't much need to cook large meals. In fact, as this was the first time in many years that it had been just the two of them, Molly had enjoyed the relative peace when she could—though she still fussed and worried, and only an act of God could keep her completely out of the kitchen.

At most, Arthur had reckoned on a small, intimate meal of what Molly could scrounge up in regards to meat and vegetables. Some stew, perhaps, or a hot shepherd's pie. He was sure she would want to have some comfort food ready, perhaps just a nip of fire whiskey between them to take the edge off an unpleasant day. They knew each other intimately well, after all these years of marriage.

Arthur was surprised, therefore, when he stepped in through the kitchen door. It was quiet as the grave. There was no music coming from the wireless, no bubbling of water on the stove or hum of enchanted fire in the oven. He could not smell any food at all, and this was most peculiar. Molly loved to cook and make home, and she took great pride besides in her ability to do so.

So for a moment, he impulsively feared that something had happened to her.

But then, as the door shut behind him and he stepped further inside, Arthur peered out into the den and saw Molly sitting in the chair beside Errol's cage. A lamp burned low on her other side, a yellow flame dancing and casting long and broken shadows through the room, and Molly's eyes were hooded as she clutched a length of parchment.

"M-Mollywobbles?" Arthur quietly ventured, feeling apprehensive as he strode out of the kitchen.

Molly did not seem to hear him, at first. Her breathing sounded a bit funny, and she continued to stare at the parchment. As Arthur drew nearer, he could make out her eyes, and he saw them flicking back and forth.

She was reading the parchment, whatever it was.

The flame in the lamp twitched and sputtered, then, its glow shifting to illuminate an official Hogwarts seal.

"Hello, dear. Ron got into a fight at school today," Molly said quite calmly, quite suddenly, looking up at her husband with an even expression. "He hexed a fellow student. Lucius's son."

Despite himself, Arthur felt something catch in his throat, and he stopped in his tracks.

"He... did, did he?" said Arthur.

"Oh, yes," Molly said coolly, setting the parchment down on her lap. "Funny, isn't it? How he got it into his head that this sort of thing was acceptable?"

Her eyes flashed, and Arthur gulped, nervously recalling his recent altercation with Lucius Malfoy, where the two of them had gotten into a short-lived fist fight in the middle of Flourish and Blott's. His heart sank into his stomach.

"Er, yes... Is Ron okay? He didn't get hurt, did he?" he asked, worried. Madam Pomfrey was a capable mediwitch, he knew, but any son of Lucius was bound to know some very nasty, age-inappropriate jinxes.

Molly pursed her lips.

"The letter didn't say whether he was hurt or not," she murmured, looking upset. Something in her tone and demeanor sent a stab of anxiety through Arthur's gut.

"He got into trouble, then," he said.

"Obviously," Molly sniffed. "Or else the school wouldn't have sent us an owl, would they?" She sighed miserably, shaking her head. "Oh... Arthur... I can hardly believe it. He's been _expelled!_ "

Arthur staggered.

Privately, he marveled that it had not been the twins.

"Expelled, you say?" he murmured. "Our Ron? Oh. Oh, dear."

Molly sniffed, and Arthur saw that there were tears in her eyes. For the first time, he noticed just how hoarse his wife sounded, and how red her face was.

"We'll have to talk with Dumbledore," she said, wringing her hands. "There must be some way to work this out... We can hardly afford to send Ron somewhere else for schooling, if he doesn't lose wand privileges altogether."

Arthur felt like his head was spinning. Weakly he sat down on the couch, which was a stained and sagging old thing that groaned in protest at the addition of his weight.

"Perhaps I can talk to a friend in the ministry about that much," he muttered. "He still can't use it outside of school as a minor, of course, but..."

"So soon after the inquiry, though?" said Molly fretfully. "Will anyone _want_ to help, if they're even able?"

"...Not many people," Arthur admitted with a grimace. "No one especially well positioned, at least. There must be something we can do, though."

"I just can't _believe it!_ " Molly said, frustrated. "After getting into all that trouble—nearly getting you fired over that damned car—and everything I told him about staying in line—that stupid boy! Oh, why did he have to go and get himself into a fight? And with Lucius's son, of all people! That awful man will try to use this against you, mark my words..."

Molly slumped, and her anger subsided as quickly as it had flared.

"Oh, _Arthur,_ " she moaned. "What are we going to do with that boy? Our ickle Ronniekins... a delinquent! Wandless and expelled! Oh, how could we have failed?"

With a mournful wail, Molly burst into tears. On reflex, Arthur embraced her and patted her comfortingly on the back.

"Th-There, there, dear," he said, feeling rather dreary himself. "We can talk to Dumbledore when we go to pick him up. There must be _something_ we can do."

Privately, he thought this was rather unlikely.

* * *

Rumors of the altercation between the Gryffindor and Slytherin quidditch teams quickly spread, though of course the tale grew and twisted about in the telling. Knowing only snatches and whispers of the actual happenings that morning, people eagerly spread whatever they had heard about it if they were honest, or whatever they thought their friends would swallow if they weren't. That most of the members of the two teams were confined to the hospital wing for a good chunk of the day only aided in the swift mutation of the gossip.

By lunchtime, everyone in the school believed they knew what had happened. And by the time dinner rolled around, most of the younger students were being teased and cajoled by their upperclassmen with gruesome accounts of a bloody, limb strewn pitch and grim-faced mediwizards carting off at least a dozen human-sized bags. Even many of the more subdued accounts insisted that half the participants had either been expelled or sent off to St Mungo's.

Curiously, when Harry and Hermione reappeared for their classes halfway through the day they did not do anything to dispel these wild accounts floating around. If anything, their gloomy countenances only fueled the rumors, particularly when those better acquainted with the two noted the absence of Ron Weasley from what ought to have been a trio.

A few well-meaning if gullible classmates, convinced that something very severe must have happened, offered their condolences.

Neville Longbottom was especially perturbed by how glumly they accepted it.

"Er... everyone _is_ okay, right?" Neville said, staring anxiously as Harry and Hermione despondently picked at their plates. "Ron and the others, I mean. They weren't badly hurt, were they?"

Harry grimaced, and he glared at his blood pudding as though it had personally offended him.

"I'd be glad if Malfoy had been," he muttered fiercely.

Hermione did not bother to reprimand him for the spiteful remark.

Neville turned his head, looking anxiously between the pair. With obvious trepidation, he said, "N-No one actually got sent to St Mungo's or anything like that, of course. That was just a rumor... wasn't it?"

Hermione sighed ruefully, and she pushed her plate away.

"Of course it was, Neville," she said just a little sharply. "You really _musn't_ believe everything you hear."

Neville turned pink.

"Well I'm just worried is all, aren't I?" he said a tad defensively. "The talk I heard... they made it sound like you lot had gotten kicked out, or worse, sent to Azkaban!"

"Azkaban?" parroted Harry, not recognizing the name.

"The wizard prison," Hermione tersely muttered, shooting Harry an impatient look. "A very nasty place, from what I've read. It's where they sent all of You-Know-Who's old supporters after the war."

"The ones who didn't get off scot free, at least," Neville muttered, sounding curiously acerbic. For a moment there was a faintly sour look on his face. But then he sighed and looked hesitantly at Harry and Hermione. "Still...where _is_ Ron?" he wondered tentatively. "The hospital wing? It's not like him to miss two meals in a row... or even one, for that matter."

It was a weak joke, a halfhearted attempt to lighten the air.

Harry and Hermione shared a doleful look, and as one they pushed away their plates. It was like their appetites had suddenly vanished.

Neville looked taken aback.

"What? Was it something I said?"

Harry and Hermione excused themselves from dinner, ignoring Neville's nonplussed expression and bidding him a halfhearted _good night_. Harry sneaked out some food for Ron, sticking a few greasy drumsticks into an empty book bag, and they headed back to Gryffindor tower.

They had not seen Ron since that afternoon, when McGonagall had dismissed them from the hospital wing and sent them off to class, taking Ron off to heaven only knew where. Hermione reckoned that he might be in the dorm packing his trunks, if he was still in the castle at all.

This was not a happy thought for either of them.

Unfortunately, when Harry and Hermione got to the second year Gryffindor boys' dormitory, they found no sign of Ron or his things. His four poster was bare, and the beat up old trunk that should have been at its foot was absent.

Ron was gone.

It took them several long, stunned moments for this to fully process.

Feeling the turkey legs soak through his bag, Harry slumped onto Ron's bare, abandoned bed. He felt like he was at a loss. Where could they go from here? What was there left for them to do?

They hadn't even had a chance to bid Ron farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter went through an unusually large number of rewrites and revisions. I wanted to get the tone just right and include a number of things, but I also didn't want to drag it out too much. Molly's reaction was really difficult for me to pin down, too; she'd be angry, but also upset, and probably very emotionally exhausted by the time Arthur got home from work.
> 
> Also, this is overall just a very gloomy chapter, I think. Whether it works or not remains to be seen.
> 
> Updated: 1-26-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	5. Chapter 5

For most of the students at Hogwarts, Ron Weasley's expulsion was not in and of itself a thing worth particular note. It was underwhelmingly ordinary compared to the wild rumors which had gone and spread throughout the school the day before, and with interest in the fight on the quidditch pitch waning besides, only a handful of people still cared one way or another.

Ron's siblings, of course, were among the first after Harry and Hermione to learn of their brother's expulsion.

Percy was flabbergasted, and while he steadfastly insisted that the teachers were ultimately in the right—Ron **had** already on been terribly thin ice due to the incident with the Ford Anglia, after all, and the statute of secrecy was a law demanding the most stringent adherence—he also wound up getting into a rather spectacular row with Ravenclaw prefect Penelope Clearwater over an unknown matter suspiciously shortly after receiving the news.

Fred and George, at another end of the spectrum, were profanely indignant. They acted like this was out of disappointment that they themselves had not been the ones expelled ( _"He only landed the one hex! Did they even SEE what we did to that great oaf Warrington?"_ ) yet Harry suspected that their motivations lay more in genuine concern for their younger brother than the pair felt entirely comfortable with admitting.

Ginny was probably the one most distressed by the news. She and Ron were very close in age, after all, and his expulsion must have greatly upset and discombobulated her. Indeed, her nerves seemed terribly frayed, the girl quieter and jumpier than Harry had ever seen her. If Ginny had come across as shy before, now that Ron had been kicked out she was nearly a certifiable introvert.

The other members of the Gryffindor quidditch team expressed their sympathies in varying ways. Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet offered condolences to Harry, Hermione, and the four remaining Weasley siblings, while Oliver Wood vehemently swore that they would crush Slytherin in their match. Angelina Johnson, for her part, purportedly took to "accidentally" dumping slugs everywhere whenever they worked with them in Potions.

Meanwhile, Lee Jordan plotted with the twins to teach a jarvey certain choice insults and train it to follow Malfoy around. They weren't having much luck with that, but the mischief improved most spirits in the common room, and also introduced some younger Gryffindors to language of which their parents would most certainly not have approved.

Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, and Neville Longbottom likewise conspired to cheer Harry, while Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil offered to share their sweets with Hermione. These efforts were only arguably successful, but Harry and Hermione did at least seem to be handling Ron's absence a touch better after the first few days, though they still tended to mope when things were quiet.

It helped matters somewhat when they received a letter from Ron half a week after his abrupt departure. The note had been rather long and unusually well proofread, but it still possessed Ron's distinct and unmistakable voice. He gave them the gist of all that had happened after their separation on the day of the slug-belching incident, as well as how he was doing himself.

The decision to carry out the expulsion had gone through quickly, and his parents had flooed to McGonagall's office to pick him up. His mother had been livid, he wrote, and declared immediately upon seeing him that he was grounded for the rest of the year—after that, she had then hugged him and asked if he was hurt. Ron didn't give many more details than that about his parents' reactions, which Harry supposed was good news, though Hermione worried.

Ron also mentioned that his mother would be home-schooling him for the time being, at least until the whole mess was sorted out. Arthur had been talking to Dumbledore to try and work something out, though Ron did not seem very optimistic of his father's chances. If nothing else, he noted that home schooling was even duller than regular school, seeing as how his wand had been confiscated.

_'That was probably the most embarrassing bit, I think, apart from mum fussing. Dumbledore didn't even bother snapping it—not that it would've made much difference, with the ruddy thing held together only by spellotape—but he just stowed it away, and told me I was expelled. It was painless, at least.'_

On another tack, he told them also that his letter-writing privileges were, for the time being, limited.

_'Whatever they think about that kind of language, you know how my mum took it when dad fought Malfoy's dad at Flourish and Blott's. She says I can only send you guys letters when I've got my homework done (it's a nightmare, too, nothing but written work! Ugh!) and she or dad have to give the letters a read before I can send them.'_

Notably, Ron made very few direct mentions of Hogwarts in his letter past a certain point. Hermione reckoned he was trying to keep them from feeling too guilty about his expulsion, and Harry knew that there was no way Ron couldn't be feeling left out.

At the end of the letter, either way, Ron had asked them how they were doing, and whether Malfoy had gotten into any trouble for _"starting the fight, that rotten git,"_ as he put it. They could clearly imagine the hopeful note in Ron's voice, as if he were right there in the room asking them.

Harry smiled at this question. It was not an entirely happy smile, but there was a look of grim satisfaction in his eyes. It was the single, solitary bright note for him in this whole mess to see Malfoy punished for his vile language. Had it not come at the price of Ron's expulsion, he would have been frankly delighted.

As it was, they doubted whether there was anyone in the school who didn't know of Draco's situation by this point. Whatever pleasure Malfoy might have taken in hearing of Ron's expulsion, it was completely overshadowed by incredulity at his own punishment, and he was not afraid to express this sentiment. _"Three months detention?!"_ he was heard to loudly mutter alongside his fellow Slytherins in the halls between classes. _"For one stupid word? Granger was the one who started it!"_

The Gryffindors—many of whom had acquaintance with one Weasley or other, or felt greatly irritated about half of their house Quidditch team having to serve detention, or who even knew what that "one stupid word" Draco referred to was—did not take kindly to this talk. Fred and George were all too happy to give a most educational rant on just how foul of a word mudblood _really_ was, and even Ginny had briefly overcome her own shyness to contribute some very angry mutterings about the sort of people who talked like that.

Perhaps most tellingly of all, while he also insisted that Ron's expulsion was still entirely merited, Percy made no actual direct criticism of his brother's actions in hexing Malfoy for using that language. He did not say that Ron should not have done it, and coming from someone like him that was nearly tantamount to outright approval.

Thinking of what they would write, Hermione grabbed a sheaf of parchment while Harry rummaged in his bag for an ink bottle. Even if they could think of no other way to help their friend, they could at least keep him up to date with what was going on at Hogwarts.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy was a man who took great pride in the purity of his wizarding ancestry, chiefly because being a pureblood was advantageous in the high society of magical Britain, or _Clas Myrddin_ , as the most pretentious traditionalists were wont to call it. Lucius therefore had no patience for muggle-loving fools, and he furthermore greatly disdained the neutering of language simply to suit the mercurial sensibilities of overly sensitive liberal types.

Most importantly of all, he was very protective of his son, because Draco was his heir and would carry on the Malfoy name when he was gone. It would not do for the boy to be tarred with the wrong brush, or to have his record marred. Thus, Lucius was naturally perturbed when his son wrote to him complaining that he had been given three months detention after his fight with Arthur's son. Allegedly just for calling one of his classmates a mudblood, and Lucius was inclined to believe (or at least _humor_ ) his son.

The student responsible for assaulting Draco had been promptly expelled. This much Lucius could appreciate, and that it was one of Arthur Weasley's disgustingly prolific brats only sweetened the deal. But for Draco to be given three months detention as well? Preposterous!

It was simply an outrage. Lucius had scarcely been able to comprehend it when his son had written him with the unpleasant news, and naturally he had immediately sent an owl to Severus demanding to know the meaning of this. _'Dumbledore went over my head,'_ was the gist of the man's response, and Lucius seethed as he read it.

"I cannot believe this, Narcissa," Lucius darkly muttered, shoving away Severus's letter. It had left him in a foul mood. "That thrice-damned old fool! I tell you, the day Albus Dumbledore gets the sack cannot come quickly enough. I will have him _rue_ the day he ever crossed me."

"Yes. He's a terrible headmaster, that man," Narcissa said with a sympathetic nod. "Too soft in the head to call himself a proper wizard. And the types with which he goes cavorting, half-breeds and blood traitors and worse... Simply despicable."

"Draco would have been better off at Durmstrang," Lucius remarked. "Igor Karkaroff is infinitely more sensible than Dumbledore, you know. He isn't afraid to teach his students the dark arts, and he would never have tolerated this sort of nonsense."

"The uniform is still dreadful, dear," said Narcissa a touch reproachfully, looking at Lucius with her lips thinly drawn. "Red simply would not suit our Draco. It is far too... _Gryffindor_ a color."

"Perhaps," said Lucius, not sounding at all convinced. "But Karkaroff would not have punished a student simply for calling a spade a spade. In fact, I daresay he would not tolerate mudbloods in his school at all."

"Our boy is a Slytherin," Narcissa said pointedly, stubbornly. "As has been all my family before him, and all your family also. And Slytherin is Hogwarts. It would be a tragedy to end such a long and proud tradition."

"Then Dumbledore must go," said Lucius determinedly. "Or else he shall continue to poison that prestigious old school with all his deplorable pandering to mudbloods and muggle-lovers."

Narcissa hummed and eyed her husband thoughtfully for a moment.

"If your plan works..." she said slowly, meaningfully.

"...then he will be ousted before the end of the year," Lucius finished, catching his wife's intent. "Yes, of course. There's no need for me to lose my temper. Events have already been set in motion. It should only be a matter of time."

Narcissa smiled, a gleam of something pleased in her eyes.

"Oh, darling," she said, sidling up close to her husband. "I do so love it when you plot."

Her hand found its way onto his lap.

Only somewhat reluctantly, Lucius allowed himself to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm back at work, so I've less time for writing now. On the other hand, this also means I'm making money again, which is nice. It's a give-and-take sort of thing, isn't it?
> 
> Also, I feel like I've been really meticulous in the way I'm writing this fic... although I don't have any concrete outline, or even more than a general idea of where I want to go with it. Haha, so in that way I'm pretty much the same as ever.
> 
> Updated: 2-1-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	6. Chapter 6

Ron stared at his History of Magic textbook, the tome lying open in his lap. The words on the page were motionless and unchanging, yet they seemed to actively defy any attempt at comprehension. The longer he stared at the words, the less they seemed like any actual language. It was mindnumbingly dull, and while the material was admittedly a little less sleep-inducing in text form than it was when droned out in Professor Binns's soulless monotone, it was still frightfully formidable in its banality.

Nonetheless, feeling his mother's eyes fall upon him from where she was busying herself in the next room over, Ron forced himself to try and focus. If he did not give this a serious effort, she was liable to give him another rollicking. Mum's temper had been especially volatile over the past few days, ever since she and dad had picked him up from... from _school_ , and she had become prone to lecturing him at length for the slightest offenses.

Molly Weasley had always been a stern disciplinarian, quickly stirred to righteous fury by misbehavior and backtalk. She did not tolerate horseplay or devilment, misbehavior or misconduct. She had high expectations for all her children—wanted all of them to succeed and excel as their eldest brothers had, Bill the head boy and quidditch captain Charlie. Getting expelled was NOT something she had ever wanted to happen to her children, no matter how she had threatened to pull Ron out of school if he put even one more toe over the line.

While she was relatively sympathetic to the circumstances of Ron's expulsion, having no fondness for pureblood supremacy or such nasty language, she still felt that he should have responded in a way which conformed to the rules and guidelines set down for students at the school. It had been many years since she had attended Hogwart's herself, and she had perhaps somewhat forgotten what it was like. Nor did she appreciate just how ridiculously biased Severus Snape was, and how hard it was to get that slimy git Malfoy in trouble with a teacher.

If they had gone and tattled on Draco, Ron was sure, the other Slytherins would have formed up rank behind their seeker and vehemently denied any wrongdoing, and if Snape had managed to get involved then the word of the Gryffindor witnesses would have counted for next to nothing. But his mum did not really understand that, and she insisted that _of course_ the teachers would take care of such problems. It was not the place of students to go meting out retribution on one another, she said.

Besides this, regardless of the cause or any extenuating circumstances behind his cursing of Malfoy, it could not be mistaken that Molly was easily most upset with Ron for the fact that he had gotten himself, _in the first place_ , into a situation where just one such offense was sufficient to see him expelled. And her ire was honestly kind of justified, muttered a part of Ron that sounded awfully like Hermione. Flying the Ford Anglia to school really had been an inexcusably _stupid_ decision.

He and Harry shouldn't have lost their heads in a panic over the platform sealing itself. It was doubly embarrassing when Ron thought of the dangers they had faced only a few months prior in their attempt to protect the Philosopher's Stone. He had been the one to think clearly and logically when playing against that giant chess set, after all. He had been able to detach himself enough from fear of injury or worse to objectively calculate the options available to him, all the possible moves he could have made, to see the one choice that would lead any of them to progress into the next room, even if it meant Harry and Hermione having to abandon him to a less than certain fate.

If life were more like chess, Ron mused, perhaps he would feel less foolish and have less difficulty thinking things through. But in real life, people didn't wait patiently for you to come up with retorts, and didn't allow you the time to think through your actions carefully. Ron wasn't great at making snap decisions, and if pushed or pressured he tended to lose his nerve and fumble. When playing wizard chess he was able to relax and think his every choice through. He could see the board and all the pieces, read his opponent and guess what moves they might make in response to him moving a rook here, or leaving a bishop there.

But people weren't pawns, and the world wasn't a chessboard. His talent at the game was a novelty with no real use outside showing up his friends during lazy, free hours in the Gryffindor common room. Chess wasn't glamorous, either. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't something that made you stand out in a crowd or got you tons of gold in contracts. Not like quidditch did...

Ron shook his head, then, catching his mind wandering. He swore inwardly, silently muttering a curse he knew would set his mum on a warpath if she heard it.

Screwing up his eyes, he forced himself to stare with renewed intensity at the words on the page. It was a dreary task, the text dry, academic, and nearly impenetrable in its loquacious pomposity. Allegedly the book was intended for students at Ron's grade level, but even if this had been a preschool picture book he may as well have been trying to read a cuneiform cipher. The subject matter was simply so dull and uninteresting that his brain refused to let its information sink in, and it took every ounce of discipline Ron had to soldier on with the task.

He did not dare ask if he could have a break yet. The last time he had inquired along this line, his mum had asked him if he had completed the reading she'd assigned him, and then given him a long and angry lecture about responsibility when he'd said _no_. It would be more than his hide was worth to risk asking again so soon after that. Nay, best to continue reading and wait for her to broach the subject.

Really, though, aside from unwanted reminiscence of furtive games of hangman and tic-tac-toe played with Harry while Hermione took notes and shot them exasperated looks, it actually wasn't that bad. Reading the textbook, that is. It was easier to concentrate on this than on Binns's lectures, at any rate.

...of course, that was rather like saying it was easier to tackle a dragon than a nundu, but at least doing it this way and actually just reading the text for himself actually saw _some_ of the names sink into his head, and _some_ of the dates take root in his brain, although it was still dreadfully and unforgivably boring.

_So on the 29th of November, Anno Domini 1338, Elfward the Effervescent did bring suit before the Wizard's Council disputing their ban on the import of Mimbulus Mimbletonia to the Isles of Britannia, alleging that the plant's pungent ejaculations held significant potential for use in medicinal creams and ointments. His case was opposed by a coalition of Horace the Hoary, Wesley Rubeus, and Betelgeuse Black, who protested these claims and cast aspersions on Elfward's credibility, famously insinuating that his expulsion from Hogwarts in the spring of 1274—when he had attempted to replace the headmaster's favorite rosebush with a poorly disguised venomous tentacula—entirely disqualified him from giving suit on behalf of any plant or plant species._

Ron stifled a groan and skimmed blearily down the rest of the page, looking for anything else even vaguely interesting. He perked up slightly when his eyes passed over the phrase _"wizard's duel"_ , only to quickly lose interest once again when he saw that it was immediately preceded by the words _"declined from engaging in a"_ and likewise followed with _"choosing instead to pursue a diplomatic solution."_

Quite put out, he barely paid any attention to the rest of the section, which was devoted primarily to explaining—in the dryest language possible—how the Wizard Council's decision to uphold a ban on some plant of which he had never heard had led to a minor revolt by the owners of apothecaries in several counties, limiting public access to potion supplies and causing rat populations to boom due to a resultant scarcity of poisons and magical vermicides.

Yawning, Ron thought wistfully of Scabbers and wondered how the fat old rat was doing. He had left him at Hogwarts in a fit of pique, sending Ginny a note that Scabbers was now hers. It had been been in a dour mood that he did this, reasoning gloomily that Percy's old pet would be happier at the school, and once he'd been home for a day or two he regretted the decision very much. Scabbers might have been nearly as boring as History of Magic, but he was still company.

Once or twice Ron had entertained the notion of writing Ginny a letter to say that he had changed his mind and wanted Scabbers back, but he was never able to go through with it. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, and he did not think Scabbers would much appreciate flying by owl post, besides. So he left the matter alone while silently resenting himself for yet another stupid impulse decision.

Eventually, Ron managed to muddle his way through to the end of the chapter, taking sparse notes on the outbreak of the Black Death and its effect on wizard-muggle relations. He scowled at the brief mention of one Nicholas Malfoy getting cleared on charges of killing muggle tenants and blaming it on the plague.

"Bet the ruddy git did it," he muttered under his breath, before closing the book with a huff. He was about to reach for _Travels with Trolls_ , very reluctantly, when his mother strode in.

"Are you done with your reading, Ronald?" she asked him, noting the closed History of Magic textbook on the side table. Celestina Warbuck's distant crooning drifted in faintly from the kitchen.

"I finished the chapter," Ron mumbled, shifting in his seat.

"Good," Molly said, her expression softening by the slightest margin. "Well. As long as you're finished with that, you might as well have some lunch. Come along, then. I've made sandwiches."

Grateful for any reprieve from the tedium of study, Ron shot up from his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a short interlude. As a mildy interesting piece of trivia, when I first read the Harry Potter books, for an embarrassingly long time I thought "prefect" was "perfect". Despite this, I am not a diagnosed dyslexic, and I was actually at a higher reading level than most of my peers back in elementary school.
> 
> I dunno, it's just a weird thing I thought worth noting.
> 
> Also, I recently caved in watched the first episode of One Punch Man. I can certainly see what all the hype was about, haha. I actually remember first hearing about the manga a few years ago, though I never checked it out... Ah, well.
> 
> Updated: 2-7-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	7. Chapter 7

Minerva McGonagall was in a sour mood as she sat herself down in the teachers' lounge, holding a steaming cup of tea and scowling at nothing in particular. Her lips were pursed, and her nostrils were flaring as though she was about to snort fire.

"One should think that wretched woman would have better things to write about," she sniffed, giving her friend and colleague Pomona Sprout a significant look. "Investigation, _indeed_."

Pomona nodded commiseratingly, dipping a biscuit in her tea.

"If she shows up anywhere on grounds again, I'll throw her in with the devil's snare," she said. "You know, I've never been prouder to have Diggory in my house. The telling off he gave that horrid sow!"

"Yes. Let's just hope he doesn't find himself the topic of any future articles," said Minerva darkly. "His father works for the ministry, doesn't he? I remember back when he was a student. Amos had a good enough head on his shoulders, but he was always a bit too loose with his tongue."

"He hasn't changed much, from what I hear," said Pomona. "Talks his coworkers ears off bragging about his son. Not that he doesn't have cause to brag!" she added, looking a touch smug. "He's a sure candidate for prefect, that Cedric. Might even make head boy at this rate!"

"He won't have much competition from the Gryffindors," Minerva concurred, seeming a touch rueful. "He is in the same year as Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins, unless I am quite mistaken."

"So he is," said Pomona, looking somewhat amused at her friend's dismay. "Bad luck for Gryffindor, that. Still, why _do_ you suppose that woman was sneaking around here in the first place? Not for any good reasons, obviously, but I can't imagine the school would have the sort of news _she_ writes about."

"Rita Skeeter delights in sowing controversy and attacking famous personages, you know," said Minerva. "Perhaps she was simply looking for a go at Lockhart."

"Oh, how I wish!" Pomona seethed. "If anyone deserves her treatment, it's that blustering buffoon! Wouldn't know the difference between a mandrake root and a sweet potato, yet he has the gall to correct _me_ on the proper handling of bubotuber pus!"

"Alas, that we could only be so fortunate," came the familiar smooth drawl of Severus Snape, the sallow-faced potions master making his entrance into the teacher lounge. "But I just saw Skeeter talking with Percy Weasley, and I do not believe that idiot boy would ever say a single thing against a Hogwarts teacher... not even our _esteemed colleague_."

His voice dripped with sarcasm on these last two words. McGonagall nearly shot up from her seat in response, stopping only when she remembered her tea.

"You threw her out, I assume?" she said tensely.

"Of course I did," Severus said, clearly resisting the urge to sneer. "And I told Weasley in no uncertain terms that if I heard of him speaking to Skeeter again, it would be fifty points from Gryffindor. This is a place of learning, not some celebrity rumor mill."

Pomona frowned.

"Hm, still... Percy Weasley, though?" she said in a tone of quiet disbelief, slowly shaking her head. "I always thought he would have had more sense than that. Are you completely sure it was him?"

"I could not have mistaken him for anyone else," Severus replied acidly. "Weasley might be clever when it comes to the memorization and recitation of names, dates, and miscellaneous trivia, but he is _woefully_ lacking in regards to common sense."

McGonagall and Sprout gave Snape matching dirty looks.

"Someone really should speak with Professor Dumbledore about this," Minerva said after a tense silence, her lips drawing themselves into a thin line. "We cannot have people coming here as they please, disrupting lessons and getting the students all in a tizzy, no matter how famous they might be. This is a _school_ , for heaven's sake."

"Indeed!" Pomona said with a vigorous nod, nearly spilling her own cup of tea. "Perhaps I should talk to Filius about taking a look at updating the anti-intrusion charms around the grounds? These next few years will be a nightmare if the press think they can just come waltzing in here whenever they like."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Maybe I ought to set up some perimeter jinxes, as well?" offered Severus in an oily tone. There was a glint of malice in his beetle black eyes, and his coworkers shared a nervous look.

Not to say that they mistrusted Professor Snape, but he could be... well, a tad _overzealous_ in upholding school rules, particularly when it came to students not belonging to his own house. At the very least, they strongly suspected that he intented these suggested jinxes as much for truants and curfew-breakers as actual intruders.

They never contradicted him in front of the school if they could help it, of course. Best to present a united front, if only so the students didn't start to think they could get out of trouble by playing the teachers against each other. Nonetheless, there was no denying that they were more polite than cordial with Severus Snape.

"No, that shouldn't be necessary," they told him.

He looked only a little put out by this.

"Very well, then," Severus said curtly. "If you'll excuse me. I have papers to grade."

Turning, he walked out of the lounge.

Minerva and Pomona shared matching looks. When he was gone, Pomona whispered.

"You know what? If Skeeter shows up again, I think I really might just leave her to Snape."

"I was just thinking the same thing," said Minerva wryly.

* * *

Detention with Lockhart was, Harry decided, significantly worse than any of the alternatives. Scrubbing cauldrons, polishing trophies, or copying lines would have been infinitely preferable. He would would even take being hung from the ceiling in the dungeons, as Filch had nastily suggested so many times before, over having to endure more than an hour at a time of their narcissistic defense professor's company.

That events on the day of Ron's expulsion had caused this detention to be postponed in the confusion was little comfort to Harry, particularly when Lockhart gave him the advice to distance himself from association with the youngest of the Weasley boys.

"People might like a good rebel every now and then," he had said in what he probably considered to be a shrewd and knowledgeable manner. "But at your age it's important to keep a clean record. Make too much trouble or hang out with the wrong crowd, and it will come back to haunt you at the worst possible time, the press will make sure of that. This Ron is a bad seed. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on him. You wouldn't want to be dragged down by someone like that, believe you me!"

Harry had needed to exert a good deal of self control in order to keep himself from dumping his ink bottle all over the man's obnoxiously bright and colorful robes. How Hermione could, after a single lesson with this idiot, believe the smarmy git to be even half the wizard his books made him out to be ... Harry felt embarrassed on her behalf.

But mastering himself in spite of both boredom and irritation, he continued to work through the pile of fan letters. A few were snatched away by Lockhart before he could read them—one including a picture of a witch in knickers that might have been considered racy back in the Victorian era (and looking old enough to have lived through that period firsthand, to Harry's dismay) as well as a few with language at which Ron would have sniggered and Hermione blushed or nervously giggled.

Every letter Harry didn't have to answer was a relief, as this was all very tedious work, so he could at least be grateful for the slight reprieves granted by Lockhart sheepishly pocketing these letters and telling him to forget he had ever seen them. Time went by slowly enough to make these short moments seem very precious, dragging as it always did when one simply wanted to hurry and get an unpleasant experience over with.

Eventually, however, his detention came to an end. It was ultimately uneventful, and very boring. There were no voices to be heard in the walls that night.

Tired, surly, and feeling completely sick of Professor Lockhart, Harry made his way back to the Gryffindor common room. Aside from ducking into an adjacent corridor to avoid a run-in with Peeves (who was cackling to himself and swinging around a soggy bundle of uncertain origins), Harry made good time. He was getting better at navigating the school's labyrinthine halls.

Giving the Fat Lady the password once he reached her painting on the seventh floor, Harry climbed in through the portrait hole and surveyed the common room. Hermione was there, perhaps waiting for him to get back from detention, staring distractedly out a nearby window while sitting in one of the chairs furthest from the fire. A copy of the Daily Prophet lay on her lap, bent and crinkled as if from repeated perusal.

"Evening, Hermione," said Harry in a quiet voice. There weren't many other students in the common room, but a nauseous-looking seventh year was working intently on a pile of homework that made Lockhart's stack of fanmail look modest by comparison, shooting nasty looks at anyone who made too much noise, so he chose to keep his voice down.

Hermione gave a start all the same, looking around wildly as though she had not heard him approach.

"Oh, Harry! When did you get back? Hello," she said, sounding faintly out of sorts. "Did your detention go alright?"

"It was a nightmare," Harry answered, pulling a face. "Or Lockhart was, at least. I was this close to jabbing my quill in his eye by the end of it."

Hermione pursed her lips but made no comment. She simply nodded vaguely and looked back down at the newspaper.

Harry saw that it was the evening edition of the Daily Prophet.

"Good reading?" he asked conversationally.

"Dreadful," said Hermione in a near squeak, furiously shaking her head. "People spouting rubbish against that Muggle Protection Act, mostly. Honestly, it's disgusting the way some wizards treat nonmagical people. _'Not worth the parchment it's printed on. Why should we pay taxes to protect muggles just because they don't have the magic to protect themselves from so much as a knockback jinx?'_ " she quoted in an unflattering voice that made her sound rather like a female version of Goyle. "Unbelievable."

"The Muggle Protection Act?" Harry said thoughtfully, his memory jogged by these words. "Isn't that the law Mr. Weasley's been trying to get passed?"

"Is it? Well that's very good of him, if it is," said Hermione in a slightly pleased tone. "It's nice to remember that there are at least SOME decent purebloods out there. I just hope it doesn't affect the law, what Mrs. Weasley said about him getting into trouble at work. There was going to be an inquiry, wasn't there?"

Harry's gut wrenched at these words, remembering the howler Molly had sent Ron. Feeling a pang of guilt, he stared out through the window and over the grounds, spying the Whomping Willow. It swayed forlornly as if in a breeze, but the stillness of the trees in the Forbidden Forest further off suggested that the night was actually quite windless.

"I hope not," he muttered. "But with people like Malfoy's dad out there..."

Hermione's face darkened at the thought of Lucius Malfoy.

"Oh, that man is just horrible!" she hissed. "I heard some of the upper years saying he tried to have Malfoy's detentions overturned. Professor Snape got a letter from him about it during the last sixth year potions class, or so I heard, and it put him in a right horrible mood. He even took points from his own house when some of the Slytherins asked what it was about."

Harry marveled at the thought, and a part of him wished almost that this had happened during their own double potions with Slytherin. He would have given almost anything to see this. Imagine, Severus Snape taking points from his own house! What was next? Handing out sweets during class?

"Just our luck we weren't there to see it," he said, sighing almost wistfully. Then he shook his head. "Do you know? I heard the Malfoys used to be big supporters of Voldemort—" Hermione flinched. "—back during the war. Right in his inner circle, supposedly. They came back to our side at the end of course, saying they'd been bewitched... but Ron told me once that his dad reckons they never _really_ stopped following Voldemort."

Again, Hermione winced, somehow managing to look both skeptical and disconcerted at the same time.

"I'm sure he didn't say that _exactly_ ," she said a touch weakly.

"What?" Harry muttered. "Do you think the Malfoys are too decent for that?"

"Heavens, no!" Hermione said quickly. "I can certainly believe it. I just don't think..."

She trailed off, looking unsure as to what exactly she wanted to say. Her expression wavered for a moment.

Finally Hermione nodded, conceding the point to Harry.

"...well, yes, Lucius Malfoy certainly _was_ nasty enough at Flourish and Blotts to make me think he could have been a follower of You-Know-Who. As bad as Draco ever was, saying all those things about Mr. Weasley, and looking at my parents like that..." She glowered, and her face reddened. "As if them being muggles makes them any less as people! Honestly! They're dentists, you know. They didn't go to medical school just to be looked down on by some ignorant, classist—"

She snarled something incomprehensible, before she waving a hand and gesturing furiously. The studying seventh year shot them a dirty look, while a couple first years stared in fearful awe at the thunderous expression on her face.

"—just for not having any magic themselves," she lowly continued, her eyes flashing. "I mean, it's not like it's _their_ fault, is it? And they're probably two of the smartest people I know, besides. Lucius Malfoy is just some... some... some stupid, entitled, inbred bigot with a bit of old money to his name!"

Harry goggled at her for a moment.

He did not think he had ever heard Hermione go on such a vehement tirade, and it was a little frightening to see her looking so livid. But he also felt a vicious sort of satisfaction, and feeling very eager to contribute he chimed in with some muttered insults, imprecations, and scandalous allegations against Draco, Lucius, and the rest of their family.

Hermione smiled savagely and responded in kind.

Thus, taking turns to vent the many frustrations that had been building up inside them, Harry and Hermione carried on roundly abusing the Malfoys long after the common room had emptied. Neither of them noticed the presence of a small, glossy beetle perched on the window sill as they spoke. Even if they had, they would have thought it insignificant.

But Rita Skeeter paid careful attention to everything they said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just finished playing Mother 3 for the first time yesterday. It was certainly an experience. I also expect to be getting a new laptop by Thursday (for playing games, mainly, as half the games I have on steam won't even run on this old thing) and I should also be getting both versions of Fire Emblem Fates on Friday, because I am a slave to the corporate machine. It's a shame the Pokemon Mew giveaway requires going to a GameStop, as I have neither a car nor a license.
> 
> And maybe it's just 'cause I've actually been looking around for once, but these next few months seem like they'll be seeing the release of a lot of games I'm interested in, especially on the 3DS. Hyrule Warriors, Project X-Zone 2, and the OG Pokemon games, to name a few. Yet I'll probably want to stagger my purchases, as much to give myself time to actually finish the games as to not put too big of a hole in my wallet.
> 
> By comparison, I don't have much to say about this chapter. It doesn't feel like my strongest work in terms of flow, though it's one of the longest so far in this fic, but it does set up some things I'd been hoping to do since I first conceived of this plot.
> 
> Updated: 2-16-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	8. Chapter 8

If one were to ask Rita Skeeter what she loved best about her career, she would answer that it was always a pleasure to put the rich, famous, and powerful in their place. She never failed to feel satisfied when a governor or rich socialite became embroiled in controversy because of her writing. Indeed, she saw herself almost as a champion of the people, using her powers as a witch and Daily Prophet columnist to expose the dirty, shameful, and juicy secrets of people who were widely admired and respected.

Maybe this drew slightly from a well of remembered bitterness, spite, and jealousy aimed at the popular kids, strutting around with their many friends and acting like they owned the school. She had always reveled in seeing those winsome smiles turned upside down by nasty rumors. Even now, as a well known and well paid journalist who got to rub elbows on a daily basis with the wizarding world's elite, she relished ripping into beloved public figures and tearing apart their glowing reputations.

She saw it almost as her personal mission to show the world that the smart, wealthy, and charming were no better than anyone else. Far worse, even, in many cases. So perhaps she knew how to prune extraneous details of charity or good deeds, how to emphasize flaws and foibles, and how to make mountains of the tiniest molehills. Maybe not everything she reported was strictly factual, and she sometimes printed outright fabrications just to support her angle.

Ultimately, it was all for exposing the rich and famous for what they really were. In Rita's opinion, this practically made her a hero. That her nastiest and most defamatory pieces almost always sold well and made herself and the Prophet a good many galleons was merely a fringe benefit, she would assure you.

And so _what_ if she never wrote an article without an ironclad guarantee that she would receive payment for it?

Rita took pride in her skill for digging up dirt and publicizing (or instigating) scandals, swaying the public's opinion in whatever direction best suited her whims. This was not unfounded, either, for she was indeed very good at these things. One of the best in the business, as a matter of fact, absolutely without equal when it came to being nasty and unscrupulous.

And like any master of a craft, she disdained wasting her talents on insignificant work. Rita went after the famous and powerful first and foremost, those individuals and institutions who might otherwise be placed above scrutiny. Not to be mistaken, though! She was far from some starry-eyed, crusading twit. No, if Rita had any agenda, it was only to stir up as much controversy as possible.

She did not care at all about politics, and she would gladly savage anyone so long as putting their name in the headlines would sell papers. Bile did not faze her. She would not stop writing over little things like death threats and jinxed artefacts. Frankly speaking, she was quite used to hate mail, and she usually found it more amusing than anything when someone wrote to her demanding a retraction or promising to sue. Whatever she may have lacked in scruples, she made up for in creativity. Angry letters were but another source of inspiration, and proof besides that her articles sold.

All that mattered was that she _got_ feedback, that people _read_ her work. Nobody would want to read about some no name scrub. The public only cared about people they could recognize, people they knew of and heard of every day. The more famous, the more powerful, the more polarizing, the **better**. There was no such thing as bad publicity, and all that mattered was selling her work.

And could there be anything more divisive or inflammatory than exposing the sole heir of one of Britain's wealthiest and most influential wizarding families as nothing but a common bully? Or to implicate said family as secretly nursing controversial beliefs and dredge up old accusations, old scandals, old crimes? People would be outraged at all ends of the spectrum by such an article, whether at her or her subjects.

Yes, indeed. It would be a worthy challenge, and a fruitful endeavor.

Lucius Malfoy was the big one. Practically the ultimate challenge for any journalist. Albus Dumbledore may have been more powerful, more beloved by a good margin, but there was no one who worked so aggressively as Lucius did to keep his reputation clean. He was infamous in many circles for many reasons, not least of which being past accusations of colluding with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

He might have been cleared by the courts, but that couldn't erase the headlines of eleven years ago from the public's memory. Whatever the official record might say, just about the only people who truly seemed to think Lucius an upstanding fellow were those who benefited from his bribes.

Or "charitable donations", as he called them.

Now, personally, Rita didn't know or care whether Lucius had actually been a supporter of You-Know-Who. But to hear tell of his only son calling a classmate a _mudblood_? Well, that was the kind of thing that whipped people into a right furor. That sort of language was nearly synonymous with the blood purity movement from which so many of the Death Eaters had been drawn, and most people would be quick to jump to conclusions at the merest mention of the word.

 _Mudblood_ wasn't something you heard decent, respectable witches and wizards tossing around. It showed terrible insensitivity to the many atrocities committed during the reign of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, expressed utter contempt for anyone with nonmagical heritage, and betrayed almost certain sympathies for a group which Lucius had fought tooth and nail to distance himself from. At the very least, Draco Malfoy calling his classmate a mudblood put his father's opposition of the Muggle Protection Act in a rather questionable light.

So whatever angle Rita chose to take on this story, it would whip people into a frenzy. However she chose to cast the events of that day, people would get angry and raise a terrible ruckus. It was awful, it was dirty, it was an absolute scandal just waiting to explode in everyone's faces.

It was, to put it bluntly, simply _delicious_.

* * *

The easiest way to get dirt on someone was to ask their worst enemy. It may have been more fruitful to surreptitiously dose a friend with veritaserum, but that was often challenging, and also generally very illegal. Even if Rita didn't care as much about the latter, it would still be tricky to pry young Draco's secrets from his fellow Slytherins, and rather pointless besides when she could simply go to any of the numerous people who quite openly disliked him.

Gryffindors were not the only ones to have a problem with Draco, Rita had picked up on over the course of her investigation, but they were certainly the most adamant and vociferous in their feelings. The boy's disposition was well suited to provoking dislike, and the stereotype of hotheaded, impulsive Gryffindors was not without its basis in reality. Draco was a bully with a wealthy father, just clever enough to avoid crossing those who could actually make him pay, but even in his own house there were several people who took no small delight in his misfortunes.

Rita was presented with a bounty of potential leads.

First and foremost, she wanted to dig up more information on the mudblood incident. And through a lot of eavesdropping and a couple covert interviews, she was able to do precisely that. Members of the Gryffindor quidditch team were particularly quick to speak ill of Draco, and quite unafraid to share every nasty rumor they'd ever heard about him. Certainly most of what they told her (or told their friends while she listened) was undoubtedly very much biased against the young Malfoy, and this suited her purposes just fine.

The Weasley twins were especially eager to divulge all sorts of dreadful things. Indeed, Fred and George were so forthcoming that Rita had then interviewed their elder brother, hoping he would be similarly helpful.

And while Percy had nothing to say against Draco specifically, with just a little prompting he was provoked into going on a most impressive tirade about people who used bribery and threats to bypass or manipulate procedure, undermining the school or the government or anything else they wished. Though he gave no names explicitly, it was strongly implied that Percy spoke chiefly of the Malfoy family.

Unfortunately, their interview was cut short by the head of Slytherin house. Rita did not immediately consider this a loss, however. Severus Snape was an old friend of Lucius, and he had a rather checkered past himself. Naturally, she asked him for an interview.

He rebuffed all of her solicitations, however, and curtly escorted her to Hogsmeade.

"You are not a member of the staff, and you were not invited. You have no business on these grounds," Snape told Rita in an oily tone, ushering her past the statues of winged boars which flanked the Hogwarts gates. "Unless the headmaster has given you permission, you are not to enter school grounds. And I daresay you haven't got that, have you?"

"I see Hogwarts has no care for hospitality," she said in response. "This will make quite a headline, won't it? _'Teachers Enforce Media Blackout at Hogwarts'_. Or perhaps _'Dumbledore's Disingenuity: Dark Dealings Behind Closed Doors?'_ " She smirked. "Imagine what the parents would say to that. It's rather suspicious, no matter how you look at it."

Severus was unimpressed.

"Leave now, or I will send word to the headmaster," he told her coolly, lips curling unpleasantly. "I am sure he will be _very_ interested to find out why you were sneaking around the school without permission."

Rita had nothing to say to this. So, disgruntled but not discouraged, she prudently departed.

It was time to fall back on the old standby of animagus transformation.

And by all accounts, she was able to get a veritable cornucopia of material just by hanging around in her beetle form and listening in on the right people. Harry Potter and his friend Hermione were especially fruitful, the Boy-Who-Lived apparently having even more cause than most to dislike Draco. It seemed they were close friends with the boy who'd gotten expelled for hexing Draco, among other things.

Moreover, Harry and Draco were fierce rivals. Not in the coventional sense, perhaps, of two people who competed in a field or practice, for that would imply some amount of good will. No, that would be most misleading. Even from just a brief bit of listening, Rita could tell that Harry and Draco absolutely _despised_ one another. There was no hint of fondness or respect between them, only undiluted loathing.

Moreover, it turned out that Hermione Granger was in fact the girl whom Draco had called a mudblood. So not only was there animosity between Malfoy and Potter, but two of the Boy-Who-Lived's closest friends had also been harassed by him.

It was pure gold. Rita could hardly have asked for a better scoop.

She simply HAD to work that in. _Harry Potter_ was still a name of awe and wonder to most of the wizarding world. Even those who had never experienced the terror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knew of the boy who had somehow broken the power of the Dark Lord, the boy who had survived the Killing Curse. He was a hero and a celebrity of the most incredible sort, a child more famous and respected than warlocks ten times his age.

He was practically considered a saint, that Harry Potter. People absolutely adored him. And the fact that Draco made no secret of disliking Potter, gleefully trying to get him into trouble at every turn, mocking him and his friends without any need for reason or provocation... well, that would rile folks even more than the whole mudblood thing, wouldn't it?

This would be almost too easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is another chapter I did a lot of thinking and rewriting to get just right. Rita Skeeter's involvement was something I knew I wanted to have from the very conception of this fic, so I put LOADS of time and energy into perfecting the tone and feel of this chapter. Hopefully, it shows.
> 
> Also I've been playing Fire Emblem Fates. It's great, real fun. The mechanics are an interesting change from the series norm, though with cues taken from the older games, and the approach it takes to reclassing is waaay more efficient than Awakening's, once you get the hang of it. My only complaints would be the lack of voice language options (because I am weaboo trash) and apparent censorship/cut content in regards to the bonding sequences (because I wanna pat mai waifus).
> 
> So I've not been writing very much, is what you can take from that.
> 
> Updated: 2-29-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	9. Chapter 9

_Dear Tom, it's been miserable lately. The Slytherins have been horrible ever since Ron was expelled._ _They talk so big when the professors aren't looking, s_ _aying it's good riddance a blood traitor like him got chucked out, and all the more for defending Hermione. I can't stand it.  
_

The page absorbed the ink from Ginny's message.

A moment later, new letters appeared, looking like they had been written in a very different hand from hers.

 _Hermione?_ the diary asked. _Is she the muggleborn witch you told me about? The one who is friends with Harry Potter?_

A quill dipped into the inkwell, and a slightly messy scrawl crossed the page.

_Yes, that's her. She's friends with Ron too. I think I like her. She's bossy, but also sort of nice. It's so_ _ stupid _ _how they try and pick on Hermione just because her parents are muggles, don't you think? My dad always said..._

The fragment of soul bound to the pages of Tom Riddle's diary found its attention waver. Even if Ginny writing in the diary was the only intellectual stimulus the horcrux had gotten in decades, the sheer inanity of her entries was mind-numbing.

Frankly, the diary was disgusted to be handled and written in by some whiny blood traitor brat, revolted by the idiotic drivel with which she was even now defiling its pages.

But the horcrux tempered its revulsion, even as a mere fragment of the original possessing Tom's patient cunning. It knew what it wanted from this child, and it knew that to get what it wanted it would have to make her open her heart. She needed to grow fond of it, _dependent_ on it, before the fragment of soul within it could sneak its way into her head and subvert her faculties to its own ends.

For the purpose ingrained into it by subtle enchantments, the mission woven between the binding and warding spells that anchored and guarded its partial soul, the diary could be patient. Tom had always been very good at manipulating people, whether through fear or flattery, and his horcrux was a weapon endowed by its creator with a purpose beyond mere preservation of his life. It was the key to the Chamber of Secrets, devised to cleanse Hogwarts of the unworthy and sow terror among the enemies of Lord Voldemort.

When Ginny had finally finished writing about her idiot father, the sickening things he had raised her to believe, and how dreadful the Slytherins were, the diary took a moment to think out its response. After a few moments, it manifested these words upon its page.

_It sounds like they are just angry that Malfoy was given detention. You told me he has friends all throughout his house, isn't that correct?_

The diary waited for Ginny's reply.

She wasn't a terribly fast writer.

 _I would'nt call them friends,_ she scribbled out, fudging the "wouldn't". _Not really. They're more like his minions. Paid off, probably. But stupid Slytherins aside, I guess things haven't_ _really_ _been that bad. I'm just annoyed at that stupid Parkinson. She is such a_

Ginny's writing cut off abruptly for a second or two, the girl clearly second guessing whatever she had been about to put next.

After a few moments, she concluded it with _'prat'._

The diary responded with a textual affectation of amused indulgence.

 _So you have told me_.

 _Yes. Well, anyway._ Ginny continued to write. _I'm sorry I haven't written as much lately. Ron left me his pet rat, and we've been getting a lot more homework, so it's been hard to find the time. The assignments aren't too difficult I suppose, but Scabbers is really old for a rat, and I'd hate for him to snuff it just because I forgot to take care of him. Percy would be really disappointed. We've had Scabbers for as long as I can remember, and he used to be quite fond of the stupid thing._

The diary took only a second to absorb all of this.

_And you are not?_

_No!_ Ginny wrote. _Or yes. I mean, he's fat, and stupid, and hasn't got any interesting powers. Ron always used to complain about that when Scabbers was his, but then Ron always complains about everything. I don't think he's entirely happy unless he's got something to grumble about. But for me, I suppose it_ _is_ _nice to have company of some sort, even if Scabbers is just a fat, grey, hairy lump._

The diary considered what Ginny had just written, mildly concerned. This set of circumstances was not immediately advantageous to it, but that could be changed. Ginny was clearly being distracted away from it by this rat, Scabbers, and whatever she wrote to the contrary, it seemed clear that she cared for the dirty thing.

That simply would not do.

Ginny had to confide in the diary. She needed to bond emotionally to the horcrux for its purpose to be carried out. Tom did not want her attention divided. He did not want her to be _happy_. The more distress she experienced, the more miserable and insecure she became, the greater of a sway he would be able to exert over her.

Plotting with all the shrewdness of its creator, the diary posed an inquiry.

_Tell me more about Scabbers, Ginny. You say your family has had him for a long time?_

_Yes,_ she promptly wrote. _he belonged to Percy first. I don't remember when we got him, actually; it seems like he's been with our family forever. It might have been the same year I was born? _

She paused for a moment, contemplative, before continuing.

_I think that might be it, yes. I can remember Percy saying he'd had Scabbers since he was five or something, back when he first gave him to Ron, and Percy comes of age this year. Scabbers might actually be older than I am._

The diary latched onto this, spotting a possible opportunity.

Tom Riddle had been a brilliant student during his time at Hogwarts, knowledgeable in a vast number of fields even aside from dark magic. Through his studies of life and death, back before he first stumbled across _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ in the library's forbidden section, he had done all sorts of research into average life spans and relative longevity, seeking to understand mortality and the potential means by which he might transcend it.

Among nonmagical beasts, there was something of a general correlation between average size and lifespan within a given order. Muggles might have been a notable exception among their primate relatives, for comparison regularly living twice as long as the more massive gorilla, but Rodents adhered neatly to this model. Rats simply did NOT live in excess of a decade, no matter how well they were cared for. A rodent of Scabbers's apparent age would be equivalent to Nicholas Flamel, and to Tom Riddle's knowledge, there was only one philosopher's stone in existence.

So there was no way Ginny's new pet rat could be even half the age she thought it. Not unless...

_That's surprising. Scabbers must be remarkably magical, to have lived so long. Does he have any powers, Ginny?_

It took the girl a moment to reply.

_No, not that I know of. Like I told you, Ron always used to complain that Scabbers was boring, and I don't think he's ever done anything remotely interesting. If he does have powers, he's very good at hiding them._

_Indeed,_ the diary wrote back. Had it possessed a pair of lips, it would have been fighting the urge to smirk. _But normal rats don't have very long lifespans, you know. One that lived even half as long as Scabbers would be quite extraordinary._

_So you think he is magical, then?_

_He must be. And I think I know how to prove it, too. There's a spell that can reveal whether an animal has any hidden magical powers. It's a bit tricky, so I'd suggest you have a teacher on hand when you do it, just in case. We wouldn't want Scabbers to get hurt, after all._

_Right,_ Ginny wrote. _What's the spell?_

Tom could feel her excitement. She was curious. Eager to do something interesting. Perhaps she thought it would finally win her the respect of her brothers if she uncovered whatever powers Scabbers had to have been hiding.

Such an innocent child. So trusting. So _foolish_.

 _It's called the Homorphus Charm,_ Tom answered. _And if you do it right, Scabbers's true powers will surely be revealed. Copy down these instructions, dear Ginny._

He told her the wand movements and incantation, as well as a few helpful tips. Then he waited.

 _OK,_ Ginny wrote several moments later. _I think I've got it all down. But what will I say if a teacher asks me where I learned this spell? It doesn't look like something I could have picked up in one of my classes._

 _Tell the truth,_ Tom advised. _Or part of it, at least. Just say you came across it while reading on your own time._

Ginny must have nodded and forgotten that he could not see her, because there was an unusually long pause before she started to write her reply.

_Thanks, Tom, I hope it works. Ron will be so jealous when he hears I got Scabbers to show magic!_

With that, she closed the diary.

If he could, Tom would have smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This probably won't have any consequences whatsoever.
> 
> I've still been playing lots of Fire Emblem Fates, and accordingly haven't committed that much time to writing, but I was still able to crank out this chapter. Admittedly, I did have a first draft of the above sequence written, albeit shorter and with a different conclusion.
> 
> Well, regardless. I also just got the first two Naruto hiden novels in the mail today (Kakashi's Story and Shikamaru's Story), as well as volume one of Fairy Girls on a complete whim. And I finally have all seven Harry Potter books in audiobook format. So that's a thing.
> 
> Until next time.
> 
> Updated: 3-14-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	10. Chapter 10

Ron's mind was on a half-completed essay on basic transfiguration theory as he distractedly nibbled at his last piece of toast. In the year he'd been friends with Hermione, he had gotten used to borrowing her notes or checking his work against hers, but now that his only contact with her was by owl post, he found himself having to do it all on his own. It was challenging, and his mum wouldn't be happy if he slacked off, either.

 _Especially_ not given his present circumstances.

So Ron puzzled over the differences between turning nonliving things into living things and vice versa, trying to word it out in his head as though he were writing it down. His face was slightly screwed up in concentration, but his parents weren't paying him too much mind. Arthur was busy trying to balance reading the paper and eating his eggs while Molly fussed over his robes, and as a result he wasn't doing very well at either.

"They've got another hole in them, Arthur," Molly said with a slight tut. "You simply must let me patch these up later. And is that an oil stain? I hope you haven't been wearing these while messing about in the shed..."

"Of course not, dear," said Arthur, looking a tad guilty. "It's just been, er, hectic at work. What with the raids and all..."

He absentmindedly turned a page and brought a little more egg up to his mouth, skimming over a Rita Skeeter piece without really registering its contents.

 _Er, animals can be transfigured into inanimate objects easier than the other way around._ Ron mentally rehearsed. This much was obvious, seeing as how they did the former before the latter in school. Less obvious was the reason for this, however, and that was the crux of the essay he'd been assigned. _But why is that, again?_

Ron frowned. He probably should have known this. He could almost hear Hermione's voice lecturing him about how, obviously, he would remember the reason if only he had paid better attention in McGonagall's classes. There was probably a formal rule about why it was easier to turn mice into snuffboxes than teapots into tortoises, no doubt named after some stuffy old witch or wizard who snuffed it five hundred years ago, but damned if he could think of anything.

Maybe it was in his textbook? Ron did not like the idea of resorting to the Hermione approach, but seeing as he could not ask her directly without waiting a day or more for her reply, he might very well HAVE to crack the accursed thing open and search through it.

Or maybe he could work out the answer logically? It made _sense_ , what he was trying to explain, and if he reasoned it through for himself he could probably come up with the explanation on his own. It would be more difficult in one way, but on the other hand it might mean not having to spend an hour skimming through his schoolbooks.

And that was a very welcome possibility.

 _Well, it probably has something to do with living and not living stuff,_ Ron mused to himself. _So what's it really mean if something is inanimate? That it isn't alive, right...?_ He frowned thoughtfully. _Then what's the difference between being alive and not being alive? Heartbeat, I suppose. Animals have organs and stuff, hearts and blood and spleens and junk. Pots and boxes don't have any of that._

Ron pondered.

It was easier to get rid of something than to get hold of it, wasn't it? Money, for instance. It always seemed loads more difficult to acquire knuts and sickles than it was to spend them—a month's allowance could be burned through in a single trip to a sweets shop. Or food, for that matter. Even sandwiches took longer to assemble than to scoff, at least for him.

Maybe that applied to magic, too. Animals were more complicated than most inanimate objects, so turning a toad into a teacup was in theory just a matter of turning all the different guts and stuff into glass, then giving it a uniform shape. That sort of transfiguration involved more taking away than adding on, and there were fewer ways for it to go really wrong.

Yeah, that made sense. Hopefully this was the answer he was supposed to give, because it was what he planned to write down.

Focused on remembering what he had just thought of, Ron was halfway out of his chair with the intention of getting his writing supplies when he heard his dad give out a soft exclamation. Molly, likewise, murmured something inaudible, and curiously Ron turned to see what had gotten their attention.

A brown owl was flying out the kitchen window, and a letter with the Hogwarts seal was lying in the marmalade. For a single irrational moment, Ron feared that he had somehow gotten into even more trouble.

Except... he hadn't actually _done_ anything, had he? No, not that he could think of.

It was probably just another letter about the twins. Mum used to get one every other week, back before Ron himself had started Hogwarts.

" _Tergeo,_ " Molly muttered, plucking the envelope from the marmalade and pressing the tip of her wand to the parchment. She siphoned the mess away, leaving the letter as good as new.

Then she opened it.

Ron saw her expression go from curious, to dismayed, to horrified as her eyes scanned down the letter's contents. By the time she reached the end, her hands were shaking, and her face had gone chalk white.

"Molly?" said Arthur, looking concerned. "What's happened? Are you alright?"

"Arthur," she croaked. " _Arthur_. It's... it's Ginny—Scabbers. She... oh, Merlin, we let that thing into our home. We let it near our _children!_ "

Her voice was climbing in pitch, and it looked like she was nearing the point of hysterics.

"Molly, dear," Arthur said more firmly, taking hold of his wife's hand. "What's the matter? What's happened to Ginny, and what has Scabbers got to do with it? Did she catch something off him? Did he bite her?"

"No!" Molly said, shaking her head frantically. "It was... he was... a wizard, Arthur! Scabbers wasn't a rat at all!"

Ron stiffened, bewildered by this declaration.

"I... pardon?" said Arthur.

Molly shook her head harder still and thrust the letter into her husband's hands. She then sank into her chair, looking stricken.

Arthur read quickly.

" _'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley... regret to inform you... performed a charm she claimed would... as a result... pet was revealed to be...'_ " His eyes went wide, and he read more quickly still. " _'...panicked and became desperate when confronted...'_ " he breathed, clutching his heart. " _'...apprehended and taken in for questioning... highly suspicious circumstances... investigators from the Auror Office... believed to have ties with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'_?!"

Arthur choked and looked up.

"Good Lord," he said tremulously. "I never... how could this have... an animagus! All these years, and we never even... Merlin's beard!"

Ron looked in bafflement from his mum to his dad, the two of whom were sharing looks the likes of which he could not recall ever before seeing on their faces. He felt apprehension growing in his stomach.

"What is it?" he asked them worriedly, thinking of both his sister and his pet. "What's all this about Scabbers? What do you mean, he isn't a rat?"

Molly blinked, and she turned and looked at Ron as though she had completely forgotten about his presence. Her expression grew pitying.

"Scabbers... oh, Ron, Scabbers was a _wizard_ ," she said slowly.

Ron stared.

"No, he wasn't," he said reflexively, uncomprehendingly. "How could he be? He's just a rat. If he could do magic, I've never—"

"He was a human disguised as a rat," Arthur said softly. "Not a rat with magical powers. He was... according to this letter, Scabbers was an animagus."

Ron felt something drop in the pit of his stomach. He could not miss the tone of worry in his father's voice.

"He... Scabbers? A wizard? I..." Ron murmured, swaying a little on the spot. The blood drained from his face. " _What?_ He—Did he do something to Ginny? I don't—I never—since when?"

He was starting to panic as the realization sank in. The grim looks on his parents faces and the seriousness with which they spoke convinced him. He tried to wrap his head around what they were saying. He tried to think of any signs that this might have been the case, tried to recall any time at which Scabbers might have acted like something more than just a fat, lazy rat.

"Ginny is okay," Molly said in a tone which suggested she did not at all believe this. "She wasn't hurt, at least. But it must have been a dreadful shock all the same..."

"Who..." Ron said. "Who was he? Who was Scabbers, really?"

"He was a wizard who was supposed to have been dead for eleven years... A wizard by the name of Peter Pettigrew." The way Arthur said it made it clear that this name meant something to himself and Molly.

But to Ron it was meaningless.

He tried to think if he had ever heard of this person. He was supposed to have been dead for eleven years? That would have been back when he was only a baby, back when...

Something clicked.

_Believed to have ties with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

"Was he a dark wizard?" Ron asked with a jolt.

His mum and dad shared a fretful, anxious look with one another.

"Never you mind, dear," said Molly, her tone gentle but firm. "Just go and do your homework. Your father and I need to have a talk."

"Yes," said Arthur, nodding. His face looked tightly drawn. "Run along, son."

Only reluctantly did Ron do as his parents said. His mind was numb, staggered by this nearly incomprehensible revelation. He felt nauseous.

His sister... His pet...

His world felt like it had been turned upside down.

Scabbers, a wizard? A follower of You-Know-Who?

He could not forget what he had heard his father read aloud.

_Believed to have ties with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

It was only believed. It wasn't certain. Yet he could not get the notion to leave his head. It was so horrible that he could not stop thinking of it, could not help contemplating it until he could feel his insides lurching as though he was about to be sick. It left a sort of dreadful, hollow feeling inside him.

Scabbers had spent a year in the same dorm as him and Harry. If he was a dark wizard, then he had been in a perfect position to take revenge for his master's defeat. He could have murdered them in their sleep at any time.

It was unbelievable, yet Ron could not simply disbelieve it. The thought had wormed its way into his mind. Scabbers as a follower of You-Know-Who, waiting for the right moment to strike, watching him and his family with quiet malice... so deeply and fixedly had this image now lodged itself that Ron doubted whether even a memory charm could wrench it out of his head.

The human brain was paradoxical. Why was it that those things one found the most horrible were so quickly cemented into memory and perception? It seemed already as though the mere suggestion of Scabbers as a dark wizard had tainted Ron's memories of the rat. He felt doubts such as he had never imagined.

And he could not miss or deny, even as a boy of only twelve, that there was something extremely fishy about a wizard who ought to have been dead living on in disguise as a pet rat. It disturbed him to consider this, and he felt violated in a way he did not entirely understand.

Ron could no longer remember what he had been going to write for that transfiguration paper. He could barely focus his thoughts away from horrible, sickening contemplation of the fact that Scabbers had been a wizard, that he had slept in Ron's bed, and Percy's, and that he himself had given that _thing_ to his baby sister.

Somehow, Ron felt ashamed. It was not rational. He had not known or even once suspected that Scabbers had been anything but a rat... yet he could not help it. He shouldn't have given Scabbers to Ginny. He didn't really know why this thought thrust itself so adamantly into his mind, but he latched onto it.

Guilt at least could distract him somewhat from the horror.

Ron felt sick. He could not concentrate. He was not even thinking of his work as he cracked open his transfiguration textbook.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Molly and Arthur Weasley had a long and worried discussion of their own, understanding more deeply and more clearly the frightful implications of Scabbers's true nature. Adult considerations passed between them, worries of furtive touches and unnoticed looks.

Even if Peter Pettigrew turned out to be no darker than Albus Dumbledore, the fact that he had lived undetected among their family for so many years, sleeping in the rooms of three of their children and seeing God only knew what, distressed them horribly.

Molly was fierce, and Arthur grim. This news drove them to distraction and dread.

It was entirely understandable, therefore, that they completely forgot about the newspaper, and gave no more thought to its articles. The Weasleys would not learn of Rita's most ambitious piece yet, not so soon.

But elsewhere and to other minds, Ms. Skeeter's article was of much greater and more immediate interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yup. No consequences whatsoever.
> 
> I've been writing more and more pencil and paper rough drafts, lately, and using less and less of them immediately. Hah, I've actually taken to heading in to work an hour early and using that time (and sometimes my lunch break) to write said drafts. As a rule, writing is a lot slower than typing, though I remember it being otherwise back when I was in school, and with the size of my manual lettering it works out to around 2-3 handwritten pages to one typed page in word.
> 
> But it's still handy, in a way, and serves well enough as a basis for expansion or alteration. I am quite lax about plotting stuff out beforehand, though. I rarely do much in the way of proper brainstorming or outlines before starting a fic—I might have an idea or two in my head, and ponder them while working or walking, but I almost never know the end of a story before I even start it.
> 
> Of course, most of my fics start out as daydreams of some kind.
> 
> Updated: 3-23-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	11. Chapter 11

_**Malfoy Maledictions:** _ _**Dirty Words** _ _**and** _ _**Dirty Deeds** _   
_Rita Skeeter_

_This coming Halloween marks the eleventh anniversary of the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It has been a long journey, but the good people of the wizarding world have worked hard to rebuild over the course of this past decade, and now we can look back and appreciate the fruits of our labor._

_Or can we?_

_Wizard Britain is seeing record levels of prosperity with high wages and low unemployment, and Hogwarts has welcomed into the ranks of its students some of the first children to have been born after You-Know-Who's defeat. This is a momentous occasion, and an important milestone for everyone who has worked to make this peace a reality, with no small credit to the Boy-Who-Lived. For most people, this anniversary is something to celebrate, and this reporter does not doubt that Halloween festivities throughout the wizarding world will be more extravagant than ever._

_And yet, it would be well to remember that not everyone sees the thirty-first of October as a night to rejoice. Indeed, even eleven years after the end of the war, it is doubtless that there are still witches and wizards who bemoan the fall of the Dark Lord and curse the name of Potter. The Ministry might tell you that everyone who sympathized with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead or in Azkaban, but wizards on the street will say otherwise._

_"Oh, there are loads of Death Eaters who got away," says an anonymous source. "Doesn't everyone know that? If every person who claims to have been bewitched actually was, there wouldn't_ __be_ hardly anyone in Azkaban. And it's mighty convenient how so many of those who DID get let off promptly turned around and gave loads of donations to the Ministry, don't you think? Bribes, more like."_

_This is a surprisingly common belief among the average laywizard, particularly those with cause to mistrust the Ministry. But even if you question the credibility of the people who make these assertions, it cannot be denied that there continue to be pockets of dissent in the wizarding world. There are still people walking free who would have chosen He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named over Bagnold, Dumbledore, or Fudge._

_These people think You-Know-Who had the right of things (although most who have lasted this long have the sense not to say so out loud) and among their numbers there are maybe even witches and wizards who have before been accused of consorting with the Death Eaters. And even if they were cleared of those charges or renounced the Dark Lord's beliefs, perhaps in the safety of their own homes these people still echo the virulent rhetoric of Blood Purity extremists._

_You might think I am being an alarmist when I say this, but it certainly raises suspicions to hear of young children throwing around the M-word without shame or restraint._

_And I do not mean "Moron", "Muggle", or even "Macaroon"._

_But in the early morning of September twelfth, Draco Malfoy—son and sole heir of wealthy philanthropist and formerly-accused Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy—was heard by several members of both Gryffindor and Slytherin quidditch teams to call second year top student Hermione Granger, quote: "[a] filthy little mudblood." This, in response to allegations that his recent appointment to seeker for the Slytherin house team had been motivated less by Draco's skill with a broomstick than by the set of brand new Nimbus 2001's donated to Slytherin by his father._

_The ensuing mass-duel provoked by Draco's words resulted in one expulsion and several visits to the hospital wing for members of both teams, as well as detention for Draco himself. Lucius Malfoy was unavailable for comment on this matter, but Draco's head of house, Severus Snape (Hogwarts potions master and former follower of You-Know-Who, kept out of Azkaban by testimony from Albus Dumbledore) was allegedly quick to place sole blame for the incident on the Boy-Who-Lived, who had in fact been the only member of either quidditch team NOT to participate in the brawl. It has likewise been said that Professor Snape was largely responsible for the expulsion of the boy who hexed Draco in response to calling young Ms. Granger the M-word, and he is also believed to have pressured the headmaster to reduce Draco's own punishment to detention rather than something more appropriate._

_Some would find it interesting that Albus Dumbledore, who is well-known as one of the most ardent proponents of muggle, muggleborn, and non-wizard rights alive, would allow a former Death Eater to so blatantly undermine Hogwarts rules with disproportionate favoritism and a violently pro-pureblood bias. Indeed, that Dumbledore should have accepted a known Death Eater as a teacher AT ALL may perhaps speak to what many have claimed for a long time: that the celebrated supercentenarian sorceror has been losing his grip for many years._

_(for more details, see page 7)_

Under other circumstances, the publication of this article might have caused quite a stir. Minerva McGonagall doubtless would have been galled by the aspersions on the headmaster, and Severus Snape would likely be surlier and more sour than ever at the mentions of himself. Other teachers would mutter about respecting privacy, or grumble about Skeeter looking for any reason to cause trouble.

Among students, reactions would have been more mixed. Most Gryffindors would have been grimly satisfied at the treatment of Snape and Draco, although the rude mentions of Dumbledore would have soured some moods. Many Hufflepuffs would shoot dirty looks at the Slytherin table, or express solidarity with the Gryffindors, a number of them being second only to the house of the lions in their distaste for Draco Malfoy and his lot.

Ravenclaws would have acted aloof for the most part, and at least pretended to be uninterested. They had reputations to uphold,after all, and closer affinity to Slytherin house than Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, besides. A few genuinely clever Ravenclaws might have questioned the veracity of the claims in the article, but the rest would have taken it for granted as true.

As far as the Slytherins, there was less need to imagine how they might react, for the Slytherins were least preoccupied with certain other recent events. Those of the green and silver who paid greater mind to the contents of the paper than the whispers and rumors flitting through the hall shared knowing looks.

Some were sympathetic to Draco, or at least acted like they were, and those closest to the boy commiserated loudly about how far downhill the _Prophet_ had gone. Others with less fondness for Draco, particularly students in the upper years whose toes he had trodden on with his entitled attitude, privately sniggered with their friends.

Still, at least half of Slytherin house had greater concern for events significantly more recent. Even Draco and his circle of friends had taken the time at least to share some unpleasant jokes among themselves. The nastiness of their talk was enhanced perhaps by indignation over Skeeter's article, and more than a few variously dirty or pleased looks were tossed toward the Gryffindor table.

Ginny Weasley was not present. Nor were her brothers Percy, Fred, and George. McGonagall was also missing from the staff table, and Dumbledore was not to be seen in his usual seat. Many of those professors who remained looked worried or perplexed, although they tried to hide it. Only Gilderoy Lockhart seemed wholly unbothered.

Harry Potter stared disconsolately at his plate. It was clean and empty, for he had not grabbed any food from the serving platters. Hermione, beside him, poked anxiously at her scrambled eggs. All around them there were whispers of disbelief and replies of attestation, emphatic but low.

They did not try to listen, but still they caught snatches of conversation.

"...an animagus...?"

"...I heard it too..."

"...they called in aurors..."

"...was it, again, anyway...?"

"...think they said something like..."

"...supposed to be really advanced..."

Hermione pushed her plate away, looking uncomfortable. She met Harry's eyes, and he looked at her with a feeling he could not entirely describe. Trepidation, almost, and like anxiety also. Her face was a shade paler than its wont, and her lips were thinly drawn.

Overhead, the ceiling of the Great Hall shone with the light of a rare naked autumn sun. The rays of it were bright as they fell over the tables in golden waves, yet it laid no warmth on their skin, seeming chill and remote. It was a brisk day despite the light, and if one peered northward they would see the gray fingers of clouds reaching out over the mountains.

Gloom would veil the sky over Hogwarts soon enough, but to Harry and Hermione its coming would seem no great change. Already they felt shrouded in a cool, bitter mist. Their minds were clouded by care and fear.

"Let's go," said Hermione, looking around. "I'm not hungry."

Harry nodded his agreement with this. His stomach felt too twisted and knotted to abide the presence of anything but its own bile.

Quietly, the two of them stood and left.

Their initial departure was marked by a number of eyes, most of them on Harry, but already a few people were trailing out of the hall to wherever they would before the start of the day's lessons. Mostly they were older students desiring some time in the library or their common rooms to cram in some final minutes of study or work. Only a few people watched Harry go for long, once they saw that his path would carry him out of the hall with the rest.

He and Hermione wended their way through the castle, aimlessly wandering. They shared few words, but each knew whence the other's thought bent, for it was to the same destination for both, and the same subjects also.

* * *

_Peter Pettigrew is alive._

Like a song's refrain, these words echoed in the mind of Rufus Scrimgeour. He held his wand hand uneasily at bay, crossing his arms and affecting a stern demeanor as best he could. But his mind was troubled, and doubtless it showed through his grim facade.

"I have a few questions I would like to ask you, Weasley."

His words were clear and clipped. Confident. Professional. This was the impression he gave.

Arthur Weasley looked from Scrimgeour to Dumbledore. He sat beside his wife in the headmaster's office, Rufus standing to the side between them and Albus. Arthur looked years older than he had the last time Rufus had seen him. Was it a product of the stress of the past few months, or was this impression only from how deeply worry and anxiety lined his face at present?

"Of course, Scrimgeour," Arthur said, interrupting Rufus's pondering. He looked sidelong at Molly. "We understand."

Rufus nodded and cleared his throat.

_Peter Pettigrew is alive._

"How long has your family had..." He checked his notes. "... _'Scabbers?'_ "

Briefly, Scrimgeour's thoughts wandered. The children were outside the office with Shacklebolt and Tonks. This was Nymphadora's first assignment without Alastor's supervision. Mad-Eye was considering retirement, with much encouragement from Amelia Bones, who had wearied significantly of the constant complaints she got regarding the paranoid old auror.

Molly squeezed her husband's hand.

"A long time," Arthur said. "It must have been... around ten years, now?"

"Eleven, dear," Molly corrected. "Don't you remember when Percy first brought it in? He was dripping all over the kitchen floor, but he looked so pleased with himself..."

"Ah, yes. I remember, now. It's been eleven, nearly twelve years," said Arthur.

He spoke as one who would have sunk into fond reminiscence, but the recollection was tainted like something rotten had been dropped into a simmering potion, and now his face grew faintly pained as the cauldron bubbled over in a reeking, nauseating mess, spoiled and foul and irreparably ruined.

Scrimgeour pursed his lips. He wasn't happy to do this, but in his line of work you needed to suspect everyone.

_Peter Pettigrew is alive._

"How, exactly, did Scabbers first come into your possession?"

"Percy found him," said Arthur. "That's our third son, the oldest one still in Hogwarts. It had just started to rain—a sudden shower, you know, though it was only a light drizzle at first—and he'd gone to fetch something from outside. Very conscientious, that boy. He always tried to take good care of his things."

"Five minutes later, I'd been just about to head outside after him," Molly continued. "The rain was getting heavier, and I was worried it might become a thunderstorm. I could see him from the kitchen window, of course, but he'd stopped in the middle of the yard and been stooping over for a good while. I called out the window, but I don't think he heard me. The wind was picking up, you see. Anyway, I had decided to fetch him and was halfway to the door when he finally came in, sopping wet and holding... holding..."

She trailed off uncomfortably.

"Holding a rat," Arthur concluded. "Scabbers, as it were. He looked very pleased with himself when he held it up to show us."

"I see," said Scrimgeour. "Did you notice anything unusual about Percy's behavior? Did he seem confused? Unfocused?"

Molly shook her head.

"No, he was as sharp as ever," she said. "Percy's a smart, sensitive boy. He saw a rat out in the rain and I imagine he felt sorry for it. Nothing more."

"And what about Scabbers? Was there anything unusual about _him?_ "

"Merlin, no!" said Arthur. "For all we could see, it was just a plain old rat. Wet, scruffy, half-drowned, and miserable. We never would have let Percy keep it if we'd suspected... if we'd had any reason to think it could be anything but an ordinary, garden variety rat."

Scrimgeour nodded and looked furtively at Dumbledore, who had been quiet this whole time. The old wizard was unreadable, save that his face held none of its usual gaiety. He was grim and hoary, and his eyes were like the shuttered windows of a high tower, impenetrable and remote.

He thought back to the discussion they'd had an hour previous.

 _"Peter Pettigrew is alive. He is an unregistered animagus—an_ animagus _, Scrimgeour. That is complex and dangerous magic such as ought to have been far beyond the reach of his merely average talents."_

_"It's suspicious, I will not deny that. Why has he been in hiding all these years? If he was living with a wizard family, he should have known that You-Know-Who's power was broken, and Sirius Black in prison. There's more to this business than there seems, I guess."_

_"And I think you guess shrewdly. Pettigrew's behavior was not that of an innocent man. As Filius tells me, he looked panicked and nearly wild when he was forced into his true form. Pettigrew was terrified, despite being confronted with only an aging charms professor and an eleven year old girl, neither of whom he should have had any reason to fear as either dark or dangerous."_

_"Dumbledore, surely you don't think Pettigrew was...?"_

_"I've had suspicions for many years that something more than we knew was going on that night, and that day he and Sirius had their final confrontation. Never more than a small unease, and I have felt that way about many other things which proved just as they seemed in the end. A burden, I fear, of greater than average intellect. I am always second-guessing even the plainest of matters."_

_"But you testified against Sirius. You said that he had been the secret keeper, and that his record was against him."_

_"I_ thought _Sirius was the secret keeper. And his record_ was _against him. There is no denying that he showed a frightening disregard for life and decency at least once in his time here at Hogwarts, as Severus would gladly tell you. But still I have wondered, at times... it all seemed to wrap itself up just a little too neatly."_

_"So do you think differently, now, than you did when Sirius was first brought in?"_

_"No. I think the same as I ever did. But now there is more reason to heed those old doubts. James was a cunning man, after his own fashion... Sirius, also. Perhaps, perhaps... they might have thought it a fine strategy to say the secret keeper was Sirius, when in truth it was otherwise. So close were the two of them that none would have doubted it."_

_"Yet you doubted still. And the more you talk, the more I find myself doubting, as well. I was there when Sirius was brought in. He didn't resist, he didn't curse at us, and he didn't shout his allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He only laughed. At the time, I thought it sure proof of his madness and depravity... but now that I hear all of this, the sound of it seems sadder and more bitter in my memory."_

_"Memory is easily influenced, even without the use of magic."_

_"But I remember what I do, nonetheless. Pettigrew's accusations were the crux of the case, second only to your testimony. With Pettigrew alive and in hiding when he ought to have been dead, and you yourself second-guessing what you once believed the certain guilt of Sirius Black, most of what I took for granted as true in this matter now seems murky. Pettigrew will be questioned. The circumstances are too suspicious for him not to be. And now, I think... that the questioning will reveal things we never expected."_

_"It may. And yet it may also be that we are simply seeing plots and webs of deceit where there is only cowardice and foolishness."_

_"That's remains to be seen. But Pettigrew is alive, and that's enough to cast suspicion in many odd places."_

Frowning thoughtfully, Scrimgeour looked once more at Arthur and Molly.

It seemed absurd to suspect them of anything untoward, but ever his thoughts wandered back to how absurd it also would have seemed to suspect Pettigrew. Yet Pettigrew was alive when he should have been dead, an animagus when he should have been hopelessly untalented, and all of this was cause enough to doubt many other things besides.

So he hardened himself and sharpened his wits, and continued the questioning. It was only courtesy to Arthur that had him carry out the interview here, in the privacy of Albus Dumbledore's office. If cause was raised for further suspicions he would take the man to the Ministry for an official questioning, but if their answers continued as they had so far, Arthur and Molly would be free to go.

He was a good enough legilimens to tell when somebody was lying to his face, and up to now they had been as honest as could be hoped.

Yet _if_ he could hope, Scrimgeour privately wondered, would he rather them be innocent or guilty? If they were guilty, that would be a lead. If they were innocent, then this would have all been a waste of his time. He would be no closer to...

...well, to _what_ , he was not certain.

But something in his gut told him that they had only just scratched the surface of matters deep and perilous past reckoning. Briefly, Rufus's thoughts went to the warrant he had gotten from Amelia to search the possessions of the Weasley children. Even now, Moody was likely sifting through the kids' effects for anything remotely dark.

He was not sure if he would rather nothing incriminating be found there. Pettigrew lived, and much was in doubt. The public would want results, a trial, a _conviction_. They wanted plain answers and clear delineation between good and evil, innocent and guilty.

But such things belonged only to fiction and poor investigative work. It was a blurry line between lawful and otherwise, and most people straddled it whether they knew so or not.

Peter Pettigrew was alive, and now it seemed that no one— _no one_ —could be wholly above or below suspicion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A lot of fics portray Draco as a poor, sensitive, misunderstood soul. This is not exactly one of those stories, haha. Really, the best that can be said about the kid is that he is not a killer, and that as an adult he abandons the views of pureblood supremacy. As far as the books, though, he only really gets sympathetic toward the end of HBP.
> 
> I suppose some could ascribe my polite dislike of him to my dislike of Dramione. On the other hand, I like Harry even though I dislike Harmony to a similar degree, having been a Romione shipper of some description for as long as I can recall.
> 
> I suppose the best comparison would be Sasuke from Naruto. Both he and Draco are... polarizing characters, at least among certain segments of their respective fandoms. Yet while I did have a period of Sasuke dislike, I'm ultimately able to find him a more likable and redeemable character than Draco. In a way, that's kind of funny, because at his worst Draco is really just a petty bigot who gets in over his head pretty quick, while Sasuke goes a good ways down the slippery slope.
> 
> The best I can figure, Sasuke is from the start a relatively sympathetic character (even if the protag's designated rival) who gets a load of development over the course of Naruto, while Draco is for the first five-and-a-half books of Harry Potter just a one dimensional bully with negligible importance to the plot.
> 
> So even though Sasuke flies much closer to the sun, so to speak, he is a significantly more rounded and pivotal character with a clear developmental arc, no less than the deuteragonist of his series, while Draco is honestly flat for most of his series, and even in Deathly Hallows really only shows up to be ineffectual, whether he's trying to aid or hinder the real heroes.
> 
> And let's not discount the fact that like half of Draco's entry on Pottermore, to the best of my recollection, is basically just Rowling expressing amazement and a bit of concern at how popular the guy is with certain segments of the fandom.
> 
> A long A/N for the longest chapter of this fic so far.
> 
> Updated: 3-30-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	12. Chapter 12

With a sniff and a wary look, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody finished searching through the effects of the Weasley twins. Questionable objects found in the course of his search had been stacked up for closer inspection, and it was rather large pile. There were many suspicious artefacts in the possession of Fred and George Weasley, a good number of things that were dangerous, or at least potentially so.

A good fraction of the twins' possessions was comprised of contraband prohibited by Hogwarts, including a small collection of adult publications quite inappropriate for a pair of fourteen year olds. Those, Moody did not bother with confiscating, though he did check them for secret messages, codes, or notes. But there were many suspicious things among the twins' effects, and several potentially dark artefacts.

 _Potentially_ dark Moody called them, because his colleagues were as likely as not to gainsay him and refute his suspicions. And maybe they would be right to do this, for their part. Moody knew he had a reputation for jumping at shadows, so to speak, and he often identified as _dark_ objects that were in truth perfectly benign. He was less accurate than his peers, chiefly because he labeled such a great many objects as "potentially" dark.

Most of the time these days, he was proven wrong, and that was just fine by him. Better paranoid and wrong than unwary and wrong. Too many good sorts had died, or bad sorts got off scot free, because of an auror failing to spot a bit of dark or illegal magic. He had seen far, FAR too many people snuff it because someone was a little lax or incautious.

During the war, and the first years of uneasy peace afterward, Alastor Moody's paranoia had been bloody well justified. Some compared him to an oversensitive sneakoscope: he was tightly wound and liable to go off at the minutest stimulus. That had saved his behind more than once back in the war—You-Know-Who and his followers were GOOD at what they did, and the best of them could weave plots so insidiously subtle that all but wary old Alastor would overlook them as innocuous. Moody had learned to be paranoid because the Death Eaters were cunning, and he'd made many dangerous enemies over the course of his career as an auror.

But the war was over, long over now, and still he remained paranoid. Old habits died hard.

The healers said he had high blood pressure. _Hypertension_. Moody was so high strung that it was killing him, albeit very gradually. But if he stayed with the aurors and kept going as he was, he'd be lucky to last another ten years, and not because he had good odds of being cursed or poisoned. Stress was deteriorating his body, and although he would insist that his mind at least was still as good as ever, there could be no denying that his reflexes were not what they once were.

It had not been some pitched battle against the Dark Lord or his most perilous followers that had cost Alastor his eye; he'd not lost that until after the war. Though his vigilance waned not, his skills were in decline as surely as his health. If he stayed on with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement much long, it would have to be in an administrative or managerial capacity. He had a good head on his shoulders, no matter what some others might mutter about _paranoia_ , and that at least he could yet ply with confidence.

Moody moved on from the twins's dorm and searched equally suspiciously through the possessions of young Ginevra, looking through her things as carefully as he had through her brothers'. That she was a first year did not make him less diligent in the search. If anything, the fact that she had used the homorphus charm and exposed Pettigrew— _allegedly_ not knowing what the spell would do—gave him cause to be doubly wary. Even if something didn't set off his dark detectors, he still treated it cautiously, and if his gut told him it was suspicious, then he treated it like it ruddy well was.

And when he fished out a small, somewhat old-fashioned muggle diary labeled as belonging to T. M. Riddle, Moody did not need the buzzing or the flashing or the shrill klaxon cries of those dark detectors to tell him that he had just hit the jackpot in the worst sense possible. His sneakoscope whirred, his secrecy sensor whistled, and every other tool for the detection of dark magic or concealment spells that he had in his arsenal went off at once. The din rang through Gryffindor tower, probably badly startling whatever kids were in the common room enjoying a rare midday break.

But Moody barely needed these things to tell him that the diary was steeped in the darkest and most dangerous sorts of magic. His nerves screamed, and every instinct honed over decades of auror work shouted at him that this diary was Bad News, and the most damning article to be found in the girl's effects, or indeed among any of the Weasley kids' possessions.

Moody knew the name Riddle, and he could guess who those initials belonged to. He was one of the few who had known the bastard before he went fully dark, however distantly so, and had the sense to guess at certain connections. Dumbledore deserved credit for some of it.

But T. M., _Tom Marvolo_ Riddle, was a name Moody knew. And he knew also the connection of that name to one much blacker and more feared.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

 _I am Lord Voldemort_.

The diary felt altogether loathsome in his hand, and bile rose in his stomach at its touch. Not solely for the knowledge that this thing had belonged to You-Know-Who, either.

Biting back the confused urges to both gag and snarl, Moody promptly confiscated the diary and stuffed it into a auror issue mokeskin pouch. This was serious, very serious. It was now a matter much bigger than Peter Pettigrew, and that had been a thing of no small concern.

No longer just the things he'd set apart, but EVERY article in the possession of the Weasley family would have to be subjected to the strictest scrutiny, and _all_ the Weasleys interviewed, not just Molly and Arthur. The kids too, and their classmates, their teachers, _everyone_.

Moody suppressed a shudder. He tasted bile on the back of his tongue, and his stomach twisted horribly. His hands felt dirty.

A part of Moody dearly wished now that his knowledge of dark magic was not so deep and thorough. Far better did blissful ignorance seem in a situation like this, happier by far would he be if all he could identify about the diary was that it was a bit of powerful dark magic. Better if he did not know, if he could not tell _precisely_ what sort of magic this was, just how foul and despicable and horrifying.

And the implications of this... while he had always agreed with Dumbledore that You-Know-Who was probably still alive somewhere, somehow...

He felt sick to his stomach.

Though Moody had never before encountered this kind of magic in person, he knew enough to identify it. He was probably one of very few aurors sufficiently qualified to do so.

This was the diary of Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort.

A _horcrux_.

It didn't take a genius to put the rest together.

Whose it was? That was obvious. But more perplexing, and in a way more pressing, was how something like this could have found itself in the possession of an eleven year old girl, let alone the daughter of someone like Arthur Weasley.

Even Alastor Moody was not so paranoid as to think a vocal and unabashed muggle fanatic like Arthur could be a dark wizard. It was a possibility, EVERYTHING was a possibility, but in this case only very faintly so, even as _he_ reckoned it. Most of the rest would dismiss it out of hand, he did not doubt.

Molly was even less likely. Her brothers were killed by Death Eaters, and Molly had loved them as much as anything. Even if she had secretly been in league with the Death Eaters, it was very unlikely that she would have remained so after that. She wore her emotions on her sleeves, that woman.

Not that Alastor wholly discounted these possibilities, but already he was considering other ways for the diary to have found its way here. It may have been planted. Indeed, there were people who would stand to gain a great deal if such a dark artefact were found in the possession of Arthur Weasley's youngest.

It was possible that Arthur and/or Molly had secretly been Death Eaters. Moody could not afford to ignore any possibility. But even he had to admit that it seemed dreadfully improbable.

Either way, they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Moody took out his wand and conjured a patronus.

"Rufus, I've found something big. Call in a task force. Send for Unspeakables. _We have a horcrux._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter took longer to finish than it ought to have, considering I'd had most of the above on paper for at least a week. But my meds were low, and I was somewhat preoccupied with other concerns, and getting back into LOTRO also. Still, here it is. I think the fic might be nearing its end, now. Or at least I've started giving thought to how I will end it.
> 
> I've found it's usually best to try and wrap a fic up before it drags on too long. Continue a story past its prime, and it will invariably stall out. Admittedly, this has not been a long fanfic by any measure save drabbles, or my earliest works, but make of it what you will.
> 
> Updated: 4-18-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	13. Chapter 13

"Don't say it."

"I was right."

Rufus Scrimgeour swore and gave Moody a black look. Alastor seemed unconcerned by this.

Massaging his temples, Rufus focused on the memo from Unspeakable Croaker.

_Identification positive._

This was all it said.

Rufus swore once more for good measure.

"Get me an owl," he said, calling over to Tonks, the most junior operative present. She nodded and hurried off, recognizing the severity in his tone. Rufus turned to Kinglsey. "We have to tell Amelia," he explained. "I don't know about this thing belonging to You-Know-Who, but regardless it is an immensely dark artefact, and it needs to be dealt with seriously."

Kingsley nodded.

"Should we question Arthur and Molly again?"

"No, not yet. We wouldn't get anything different, I think."

"You believe they were telling the truth."

"Maybe," Rufus said, shrugging. "And maybe not. But if they're lying, I can't see it. At the very least, we should see if we can recquisition any veritaserum first."

"I don't think you'll learn anything more from the Weasleys," Moody said. "They told you the truth, I'll warrant.

Both Rufus and Kingsley stared, amazed. Mad-Eye Moody NOT immediately suspecting someone of wrongdoing? This seemed extremely uncharacteristic of the paranoid old auror. There had to be some sort of a catch.

"I think that diary was _planted_ ," Moody gruffly concluded.

Ah.

Of course. This was much more like the Alastor they knew, although it was not especially comforting, nor was it a pleasant prospect that he suggested. A claim like this was very serious, and it would have to be investigated seriously. There would be much trouble and many headaches to deal with throughout, regardless of whether his suspicions proved sound or groundless in the end.

"Do you have any idea who would have the motive to do this?" said Rufus gingerly, not sure how happy he was to consider the idea.

Arthur and Molly _seemed_ like decent enough people, but lately events had been adding up to make them seem more generally suspicious. Illegally enchanted muggle artefacts, Peter Pettigrew kept as a pet of their sons, and now nothing less than a confirmed horcrux in the possession of their youngest child.

It didn't fit together flawlessly, nor paint a perfect picture of guilt, but these things were enough to make him suspicious. If this was all mere coincidence, then it was a one-in-a-million matter. He was not entirely ready to abandon the Weasleys as suspects just yet. Not until it could be said beyond any shadow of a doubt that they were completely innocent, and that seemed increasingly questionable.

Kingsley seemed more inclined to give the Weasleys a benefit of a doubt, judging by the way he looked at Moody. He appeared ready and willing to hear an alternative suggestion. Rufus liked Kingsley. He was honest, reliable, and hard working. But he was also soft-hearted in a certain way, too willing to think the best of people. He was a splendid wizard, and a very good auror, but in Scrimgeour's opinion Kingsley Shacklebolt was just a tad too idealistic.

But Rufus did not cut Moody off when he opened his mouth to speak, and he listened just as well.

"Who would benefit from discrediting Arthur Weasley?" Moody said in his characteristic tone, giving the other two aurors a sharp look. "Who can we think of that might hold a grudge against the man, either for personal injury or sheer principle? He's an outspoken muggle-lover. Obsessed with them and their gadgets. If the man's a dark wizard or Death Eater, or even just a pureblood supremacist, then he's done a damned good job of hiding it all these years."

"He has a record," Rufus said. "In sixty-eight he was arrested for improper use of magic and contempt of the statute of secrecy."

"I respectfully disagree. I read that report before we came out here," Kingsley said. "To study up on his history, you know. Those charges were a stretch, and his actions were essentially in the same spirit as defending one's self or a bystander from danger."

"He was passing out enchanted artefacts to muggles," said Rufus, not sounding inclined to accept it.

"Blankets with warming charms, and plates of food and glasses of juice with replenishing spells," Kingsley said. He shrugged. "It was a charity to help unfortunate muggles, and considering the atmosphere of those times I would call it particularly admirable. Not at all in the spirit of a dark wizard. I was young at the time, but I do remember talk of Voldemort and his following around then, back when it seemed like just another political movement. The fact that Arthur, Molly, and her brothers chose to do something like that in such a climate speaks most favorably of their character, or so I would say."

"Well intentioned or not, they were flouting the law," Rufus said. "Perhaps it was ultimately ruled to _not_ be in direct contempt of the statute, but it's still a blemish on their records. But regardless, either way we are talking about the present, and at present there is too much evidence for us to brush all of this aside as mere coincidence."

"Circumstantial evidence," said Kingsley.

Rufus scowled.

"If you two are _quite done_ ," said Moody impatiently. "Whether or not Arthur is dark, we can agree that he is probably not in league with You-Know-Who."

Rufus and Kingsley again found themselves put a little out of sorts to hear Moody say this, Alastor Moody who always counseled vigilance and suspicion, never taking anyone or anything for granted as innocent.

"...Very well. Perhaps. But what does that have to do with Pettigrew and the horcrux?" said Rufus.

"We all have our suspicions about Pettigrew, in light of his resurfacing," said Kingsley fairly. "And Alastor has said his piece already in regards to the horcrux. You know what he thinks."

"Fine," said Rufus mulishly. "Supposing he's right about that, who does he think could have planted the horcrux? And why would they do it? If it really was planted as he thinks."

Kingsley looked at Moody, frowning thoughtfully.

"The Muggle Protection Act," Kingsley said. "That's Arthur's work, and he's been doing everything he can to get it passed. There are a lot of people who don't like that."

"Yes, I've read the legislation," Rufus said, unmoved.

Personally, he thought it was a bit impractical. The DMLE had enough trouble dealing with wizard-on-wizard crime, and that was when the victims knew where to report, and what. Muggles, as a rule, had no idea of magic. How could they report being attacked with something they didn't believe existed? The MPA was a logistical nightmare, and it would be a not inconsiderable sink on the ministry's time and funding if it passed, requiring loads of gold and manpower, the formation of new departments with even more specialized training, as well as close observation of muggle news and law enforcement.

And it would take an uncomfortable amount of guesswork to discern magical incidents from nonmagical, in some cases. Admittedly _part_ of the framework for what Arthur was proposing existed already for the purposes of enforcing the International Statute of Secrecy, but still there would need to be overhauls and reorganizations, and either budget cuts or tax hikes to pay for all of it. Nobody would like that. Nobody outside of Arthur Weasley's political corner, and a hard core of muggle right's activists. Dumbledore, Marchbanks, Longbottom—people like that.

It was not so much contempt for nonmagical people that kept the auror office from policing wizard-on-muggle crime, in Rufus's opinion, but simply the numerous small difficulties and thorny details that made it unappealing to many. It was impractical and unrealistic, however well intentioned, and some people with a very great deal of money and influence were quite adamant in their opposition of it.

Arthur had been drumming up steadily more support lately, certainly, and it had been approaching a sufficient majority vote, but those numbers were shaky and many of them only passingly invested. On the other hand, there were people who made very impassioned arguments against the MPA, conservative factions with a lot of funding and support from some well-known and respected names, people like...

"Malfoy, is the first one to come to mind," said Moody, and Rufus gave a start, snapped out of his contemplation.

"Pardon?"

"Lucius Malfoy," Moody repeated. "He's one of the most vocal opponents of Arthur's pet legislation, and he doesn't exactly have a spotless record himself."

The first thing Rufus thought of was that Lucius Malfoy had been an accused Death Eater, though the charges were eventually dropped for lack of substantial evidence that he had done it of his own free will. Moody's opinion of that was well known. A lot of people like Lucius had pleaded the Imperius, and many of the wealthiest among those had been let off. It was one of those things that people who disliked the man clung to most fiercely.

Rufus wasn't sure what he himself thought of the matter. It was complicated, complicated even by political standards, and he had tried not to involve himself in such debates as _that_. But the mention of Malfoy brought a second impression to his mind, also, and this one was more current, more straightforward. A very recent article in the Daily Prophet. It had been very suggestive, bordering on inflammatory, as was usual with Rita Skeeter.

He frowned. It wasn't too substantial by itself... but it was enough to raise the shadow of a doubt. If Lucius's son really was going around calling schoolmates mudbloods, then that might suggest less wholesome motives for Lucius's stance on the MPA. Most would assume Draco to have learned such talk at home. The parents were first to face scrutiny in such affairs.

"It might be good to investigate Lucius," Rufus conceded, thinking shrewdly through all of this. Dimly, he recalled hearing about a tussle between Arthur and Lucius a little while ago. "We'll need to do it by the book, though. Go through all the proper channels."

Kingsley nodded. Moody sniffed.

The door to the room opened, and Nymphadora Tonks came in with an ill-tempered brown owl. It was snapping its beak at her and flapping its wings in her face. Despite this, and despite the clear beflusterment in her appearance, Tonks did a rather good job of behaving professionally.

"Here," she said. "You need to contact Madam Bones, right?"

"Indeed," said Rufus. "Excellent timing, Auror Tonks."

Tonks managed not to look too pleased with herself at this, and presented the bird to Rufus.

"He's a bit, er, testy," she said. "But he was the only one free. Ow!"

The owl bit her, and she released it automatically. Kingsley held his arm out, and the bird alighted with a ruffle and a disdainful hoot, but it seemed to calm down. He was quite calm himself, and that helped significantly. Tonks looked only a little peevish at how easily he soothed the owl.

"Have you got a message ready?" Kingsley asked Rufus.

"Just a moment, just a moment," the man said impatiently. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a roll of parchment. He unfurled it and gave a quick look at the contents. He prodded the paper and muttered something under his breath. Then he handed it to Kingsley. "There, that's everything. It's out of our hands now for the time being."

They sent the owl with the letter, and at their urging it flew off for London.

Meanwhile, Pettigrew was in holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A long belated update.
> 
> Updated: 5-7-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	14. Chapter 14

Peter Pettigrew had a pinched, miserable look about him. Despite the width of his belly he looked very small, and it did not help the impression of his stature the way he hunched low, close to the table with his head down. His eyes were hooded, and his face was red.

"Please answer the question, Peter," said an older witch with a stern visage, sitting across from him in the small interview room. "What were you doing with that girl? Why were you pretending to be a rat?"

"Hiding," said Pettigrew hoarsely. "I was hiding from You-Know-Who's followers. They knew what I'd—I knew they were still out there—and I was scared, I was scared they'd find me and kill me."

"That was eleven years ago," said the witch. "Surely you didn't think there were still followers of You-Know-Who looking for you? Why should you, and what could you have done to warrant continued fear of their reprisal more than a decade after the fall of them and their master?"

"Black, of course," said Pettigrew, fidgeting nervously. He licked his lips. "He was their best man, and I put him behind bars. Second only to the Dark Lord! Of course they'd want to kill me."

Amelia Bones was impassive. Her face might have been chiseled from marble in every line and slightest detail, her features were so unmoving. Only her eyes might have betrayed any hint of her thoughts as they flitted searchingly over Pettigrew, but it was beyond his skill to discern them.

"It's curious. You were hiding in disguise as a pet rat, but you are not registered as an animagus," she said at length, checking a sheaf of notes. "When did you become one, and why didn't you register with the Ministry?"

Pettigrew swallowed.

"It... That was... I was in school," he said evasively, eyes moving shiftily to and fro, searching the confines of the room as if seeking a way out. "Years ago, when we were young—we thought it was so very clever of us, and it was useful for sneaking into the grounds at night. I meant to register, of course, once I was of age," he added, a lie so obvious that no legilimency would have been needed to detect the falsehood. He shrugged weakly. "But the war, and everything... I never had the chance. You understand, don't you?"

He said this a touch desperately, looking up at her with an almost pathetically hopeful expression. His face seemed especially rodentlike just then, beady eyes peering out from a nervously flushed face, and he gestured supplicatively.

"What do you mean by _we?_ " Amelia tersely queried. "Were there others?'

Pettigrew's face colored further.

"Three of us," said he. "Me, J-James, and Sirius."

" _Sirius?_ " said Amelia sharply. "He's an animagus?"

"Oh, yes!" said Pettigrew. "Didn't you know? He is, or at least he _was_... a huge black dog, when he changes. Rather like a grim, I always thought..."

Pettigrew shivered. Amelia noted that he wasn't looking her in the eye.

"I see," she said slowly, making a note. "Sirius is an animagus. Interesting. But putting that aside, I still have to wonder, _why_ were you with the Weasleys? What were you doing, pretending to be a pet rat?"

"I told you," Pettigrew whined. "I was hiding. Hiding! The Dark Lord's followers are terrible, surely you know that. I was afraid for my life, and I didn't dare..."

He shuddered, and this time it was not merely affected.

"Why the Weasleys, though?" said Amelia. "Why the girl, _Ginevra?_ "

"Didn't matter who, really, as long as they were a wizard family," said Pettigrew sullenly, dodgily. "So long as I could keep an ear out for news. And I didn't choose the girl; I didn't have a choice in the matter. He gave me to her when he was expelled. Ron did, the youngest boy. I don't know why, he wouldn't tell a rat his reasons; just that he thought I'd be happier at Hogwarts, maybe. He complained that I was boring, but still I think he cared for me."

Amelia frowned, and she could not quite conceal a flicker of distaste in her expression.

"But if you were with them for access to news about the war," she said, "then surely you would have heard that You-Know-Who was defeated, and his followers imprisoned. You confronted Sirius after You-Know-Who tried and failed to kill Harry Potter. You must have heard about his disappearance even before you went into hiding."

One of Pettigrew's hands rose, just for an instant, and moving as if in some conditioned response or a remembered pang it lurched toward his other arm. He stayed it before it went too far, and the duration was brief, the hand sent shortly back to rest, so that it seemed no more than a twitch or a fidget. Still Amelia marked the movement, and her eyes were searching.

"I—I heard," Pettigrew said shrilly, a twinge of distress evident in his voice. "Of course, how could I not? There were rumors, and they said he was gone, _defeated_ , but I was still afraid, still hiding. The Dark Lord is dreadful, and he has powers... terrible powers. It didn't seem possible that he could truly die, at least not so easily. And he hadn't been alone. His followers were still out there. For a long time there were still Death Eaters at large, I understand, and then as the years passed I got used to my life, and still I worried, and even when everything was quiet I was afraid he might be out there, somewhere, waiting. I'm still afraid."

"You talk about You-Know-Who's powers like someone with firsthand experience," Amelia remarked, silently noting how inclined he was also to use the title _Dark Lord_ for Voldemort.

"I was in the war," Pettigrew said evasively, again not looking her in the eye. "I heard enough that I could believe anything, when it came to him."

Amelia frowned. She did not let her skepticism show too much, but she was dubious, and the more she heard of Pettigrew's talk the more convinced she became of its doubtfulness. A less fastidious interviewer might have accepted the explanations of fear that Pettigrew gave for his actions, and it was certainly believable from the look of him, and his demeanor, that fear had been the man's chief motivation.

He was not telling the whole truth, however. Amelia could tell this much. Aside from that, there were many points of inquiry at which his answers grew inconsistent or suspicious. He just seemed overall disingenuous, in some way. No doubt at least part of this impression came from where and how he had been hiding, disguised as a rat, kept as a pet by a young girl, and two of her older brothers before her.

Ginny was around the same age as her niece, Susan.

"If you say so," Amelia said, eyeing him shrewdly. "You're telling me everything, then? You aren't leaving _anything_ out?"

There was a pause. Pettigrew fidgeted.

"I'm not," he muttered. "Leaving anything out, I mean."

Amelia pursed her lips, but said nothing more for the time being.

She did not believe that one bit.

* * *

Ron sat with Fred, George, Percy, and Ginny. He felt awkward seeing his siblings in their school robes while he was dressed for home. They, for their part, looked very tired, and this was not surprising. It had been hours since Ron was brought along with his parents in the rush to see Dumbledore. Mum and Dad not been willing to leave him at home all alone, yet for his part he was beginning to wish they had.

He felt exhausted. He had not done much of anything at all except sit with his siblings and talk, occasionally, when they were able to sustain conversation of some kind. But it had been a while since the last period of talk, and that had petered out into a stilted, intermittent mumbling of weak jokes or empty platitudes well before it stopped completely. They had been here a long time, sometimes with their parents, sometimes with one or two of the aurors.

Their parents were here, now, but they were standing somewhat apart. One of the aurors, a girl with a heart shaped face and bright pink hair who must have been around the same age as Bill or Charlie, had come in a while back looking uncharacteristically grim and told them something, and they'd looked terribly anxious afterwards, almost sick.

That auror was back again. Ron thought he had rather liked her, when he first met her. _Tonks_ , she had introduced herself to them. Just Tonks. She was funny, and she had been nice to them and tried to explain what was going on, and what would happen. They weren't in trouble, she had said, and seeing the looks on Fred and George's faces at that she had laughed a little weakly. Her smile was bright, even if a tad wan.

"Well, not yet," she had said. "But I don't think you will be, if you've told the truth. We can't be sure yet, but I think you seem like good kids."

Ginny didn't look at all happy at this. Tonks did her best to cheer her up, but she had rather less success than might have been hoped. Ginny was utterly miserable, and nothing that even Fred or George had said or done could get so much as a chuckle out of her, and she used to love their jokes.

Percy was less help still, even though he sincerely tried. But his head was too wrapped up in rules and decorum, and he had little in common with his younger siblings, and little ability to relate to them. His attempts to comfort Ginny were well meant, perhaps, but he focused on things about which Ginny seemed to care little, and some of his reassurances were a bit insensitively worded even by Ron's standards.

But Ron could hardly judge his brothers, or Tonks, or anyone else for failing to comfort Ginny. He'd done just as poorly as the rest. Probably even worse. He'd told her, trying to alleviate her sense of guilt, that he didn't mind that Scabbers was gone, and he'd never _really_ cared that much about the rat, but this had only left her more distraught. She seemed terribly anxious and weepy, and Ron was at a loss for what to do.

This was little like the Ginny he used to know. She had always been so energetic and talkative, but now she was quiet and sad and gloomy. Mostly she just sniffled and stared around blearily, swinging between miserable and silently bewildered. It was baffling, and he didn't understand it.

"Why are we still here?" Fred wondered aloud. "We've told them everything we can. You don't suppose they actually think we _knew_ about Scabbers, do you?"

"Dunno," said George. "But it isn't a walk in the park, is it? This is probably the longest we've ever been in a teacher's office without being given detention."

Fred laughed, but Percy tutted disapprovingly.

"That isn't funny," he said. "This really is a very serious matter, and I can't believe we had him for so long without knowing the truth. It's disturbing." He shivered, and gave Ron and Ginny a look of concern. "It's terribly suspicious, too."

"You don't think _we_ knew?" said Ron, misinterpreting Percy's words and look.

"No, of course not!" said Percy, perturbed. "I wasn't talking about that."

But whatever it was that he _had_ been talking about, he would neither clarify or explain. Fred and George seemed to guess somewhat of his thoughts, though, and they too looked a touch askance at Ron and Ginny. Briefly, they seemed rather discountenanced.

Again a silence descended on the group. It was not broken for a long time, not until Kingsley showed up and motioned to their parents—and Ginny, too.

"There are a few more things I need to ask you," he said to Molly and Arthur. "And Ginevra should come along, as well."

"What's she have to do with this?" asked George loudly.

"Yeah," said Fred. "She's innocent! You can't pin anything on her."

"I'm not accusing her of anything," said the auror in a deep, soothing voice, although he gave the twins an odd look. "But there a few questions I want to ask her, too, and she might as well come along now, since I'll need Arthur and Molly there when I talk to her."

Fred and George furrowed their brows. Percy frowned also.

"What have you got to ask her?" Ron blurted out, more in protectiveness than genuine curiosity.

"Just a few questions about her school supplies," Kingsley answered.

Most were bemused by this response, Ron taken aback, Percy bewildered, Fred and George incredulous and mistrustful. Their parents looked confused, and only Tonks seemed to know what Kingsley meant, unless one were to count Ginny.

Because she went wide-eyed at this remark, and something in her face betrayed a recognition or comprehension of whatever meaning the auror had veiled behind his words. She went stiff and pallid, and almost she looked at him like a hare would at the fox, frightened and cornered. But still Ginny rose and went with Kingsley and her parents, and at a loss Ron and Fred and George and Percy watched them go.

The door opened and they disappeared through it. Tonks stayed behind.

Not a moment later Harry and Hermione appeared on the stairs, followed by Professor McGonagall. The pair took one look at Ron, and they sprang forward ignoring all else. McGonagall was reproving of this in her words, and she told them to behave or else she would take them right back out, but something in her face made it seem like an empty threat.

Ron felt very uncomfortable in the hug Harry and Hermione trapped him with, but he did not try to wriggle out or push them off. He was just as glad to see them as they were to see him, even if their meeting was not under the most auspicious of circumstances. Weakly, he even reciprocated.

Then the two began talking at him, babbling in a stream of words that tumbled together like a continuous sound blended without meaning or distinction, like water flowing over water in twisting eddies and curling waves, as though all the sentences they gushed out were strung together in a single word, as long as years, that said everything and yet nothing of what they thought and wanted to know, and Ron could only sit there, bemused, and wait for them to finish. When they finally ran out of breath and let go of him, stepping back with faces as red and sweat-glazed as if they'd just run a marathon, he gave them a small smile, even while his mind wandered to Dumbledore's office and its most recent occupants: his parents, Kingsley, and Ginny.

Then he looked in his friends' eyes, brown and green and trained intently on him.

"And here I thought you might have missed me," he said wryly.

Harry and Hermione laughed, or maybe they sobbed. It was hard to distinguish one from the other by sound alone, and with their faces as they were it could have been either, or both, or neither. But then their looks became imploring, and Ron could guess what they were asking. He didn't know what to tell them or where to begin, however.

Hermione saved him the trouble.

"It's been... _different,_ without you," she said awkwardly, looking about ready to spring up and wrap him in another, tighter hug. "Gloomier, and more boring, and less fun, and quieter, and—"

She cut herself off at a loss for words, her lips quivering and her eyes full of tears. Harry looked no more dignified, if less distinctly tearful.

"Same here," Ron said hoarsely, truthfully, looking at Harry and Hermione.

He was still worried, and there were so many things happening at once that he felt lost, like he was in a dream and watching the world fly past with no idea what to do, no power or say in how things should go. Yet he was glad, at least, to see his friends in the middle of all this mess. And even as he glanced from them to his brothers, and then the door of Dumbledore's office, he felt less lost and bemused and pinned in place.

If it was the three of them together, it didn't seem like there was anything they couldn't handle. Despite himself, and yet also perfectly in line with his heart and thought, Ron beamed at them, smiling from ear to ear. Harry and Hermione returned the smile.

For a little while, at least, they were just glad to see him, and he to see them.

Everything else could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The last half of this chapter stymied me a while, partly because there were a lot of things related to it floating loosely but not explicitly yet bound, such as Ron's presence, or the whereabouts of Harry and Hermione. But I managed to muddle through both those things, and I'm rather glad I did, I think. It might not have been that long a parting, in or out of universe, but I like how their reunion turned out. A bit abrupt textually, perhaps, in terms their appearance, but hopefully still satisfying in an emotional respect.
> 
> Updated: 5-24-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	15. Chapter 15

"I'm sorry you got expelled," Hermione said, sitting beside Ron and not quite looking him in the eye. Her face was a touch red from the recent hug that the three of them had shared, and her posture was stiff in childish embarrassment at their recent, platonic intimacy.

Harry, seated on the other side of the duo, nodded in absentminded agreement. He was somewhat preoccupied with looking around the room, and he had a mildly perplexed frown. His eyes alighted on the auror, Tonks, and on McGonagall, and Fred, George, Percy, and finally Ron and Hermione.

"Don't be. It's not like it was your fault," said Ron to Hermione, speaking as gruffly as a boy of twelve-and-a-half could manage. "I'm the one who hexed the prat."

"But _I_ started it," Hermione said, sounding unmistakeably guilty.

"How do you reckon that?" said Ron dubiously.

"I provoked Malfoy. You only hexed him because he called me a—well, you know. And he only called me that because I butted in on the argument."

Hermione spoke ruefully, and Ron frowned at her.

"Malfoy called you that because he's a _git_ ," he said. "It's not your fault if he buys into all that rubbish about purebloods being better than everyone else. And it's not your fault if I decide to hex him for it, either."

"... ... ..." Hermione was silent for a moment. She looked sidelong at Ron in a curious, searching manner. Her expression was undecipherable, and absently she fiddled with her hands. At length, she said, "...Yes, well... how have your lessons been going, then? At home, I mean."

"Dull," said Ron emphatically. "It's all bookwork and junk."

Hermione smiled a little at his despairing tone.

"But you're still _learning_ , aren't you?" she said in an encouraging tone. "That's good. Knowing the theory is as important as actually practicing the spells."

"Maybe," said Ron sullenly. "Mum isn't about to let me actually practice until everything's been approved nice and legal at the Ministry, though, and I can't do magic without a wand anyway."

Hermione appeared sympathetic at this, although it was also clear to see that she agreed with Mrs. Weasley that everything should be done by the rules. She did not, at least, reproach him for hexing Malfoy, such as she had done in the first stage of their correspondence after his expulsion, when she had been upset and looking for something to blame for his expulsion. But she smiled weakly at Ron, and fidgeted as if momentarily thinking to reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

It was at this moment that Harry spoke up, a perplexed look on his face.

"Where is Ginny?" he asked, surveying the room for the umpteenth time. Fred and George were muttering together in a corner, and a rather ashen-faced Percy was speaking with Professor McGonagall while Tonks stood somewhat awkwardly by. "Shouldn't she be here with the rest of you?"

Ron shrugged helplessly.

"That bloke Kingsley wanted to ask her a few questions," he said. "Dunno why. I guess they want more details about Scab... about Pettigrew."

Harry frowned at this. Hermione also looked perturbed.

Ron, seeing the looks on their faces, felt himself also start to worry again.

* * *

"Ginevra," said the slow, melodious voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Can I call you Ginny?"

Ginny, looking very small indeed opposite Kingsley, quickly nodded.

" _Please_ ," she said, her voice coming out in a squeak that would have mortified her under any other circumstances.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk with a grave expression, surveying the four before him with thoughtful eyes. Arthur and Molly stood beside their daughter, who was seated in a squashy armchair that nearly enveloped her tiny frame.

Kingsley nodded softly.

"Very well, then. Ginny, I just have a few questions to ask. You don't have to answer if you aren't comfortable with it, but everything you can tell me will be helpful. Do you understand?" he asked. "You aren't in trouble, and under the circumstances I don't think you could get into trouble for anything you might say, but please be honest. I want to help you."

So soothing was his voice, a calm paternal baritone that thrummed with gentle authority, that Ginny could be seen to visibly relax. She nodded again, more slowly, appearing a little less anxious. She didn't trust herself to respond verbally to this, however.

"Okay, Ginny," Kingsley said slowly. "I just want to ask a few questions about your diary."

Ginny immediately stiffened, and her freckles stood out in great brown splotches against a swiftly paling face.

Molly sputtered indignantly on her daughter's behalf.

"Really, now! How is that appropriate?" she ejaculated before she could restrain herself. Arthur put a hand on his wife's shoulder to calm her, but he too shot Kingsley a somewhat unfriendly look.

The auror raised his hands placatingly.

"Peace, _peace_ ," he said. "It's not as though I've read it. I have not. I only want to know where she got it, and when."

Ginny still looked tense and wary, like a deer in headlights, but she relaxed marginally once more at Kingsley's reasonable, reassuring tone. Softly she spoke up, after a long moment of fidgeting hesitation.

"I—I got it with my schoolbooks," she said. "Dad bought it for me."

Arthur pulled a quizzical face at this. He didn't say anything, but he did look perplexed, and Kingsley noticed this with a practiced eye.

"How do you know your father bought it?" he gently inquired. "Did you see him pick it out, or ask him to buy it for you?"

Ginny frowned.

"No, I didn't _see_ him buy it," she said. "Or I don't remember, at least. That was the day he got into a fight with—" She broke off suddenly, looking abashed. Flushing rather deeply, she then hastily added: "—I didn't ask him to get me a diary. I wouldn't have."

Kingsley nodded. As far as Ginny claiming not to have asked her father to get her a diary, he believed this, and he could understand why. It was no secret that the Weasleys were... _financially impaired_ , to put it courteously. The first part of her statement, or the abrupt end thereof, was distinctly more intriguing.

"Yes," Kingsley said, looking at Arthur. "You got into a fight with Lucius Malfoy at Flourish and Blotts on that day, didn't you? We have a record of the incident, although no charges were pressed by any party. But can you tell me the details? What provoked the confrontation?"

Arthur blushed, and he looked rather shamefaced.

"I'm not proud of it," he said. "It was rash and foolish of me, and I clearly set a very poor example for the children. Ron especially, it seems. But... I won't, er, get in trouble for this? And you, um, won't take anything I say to public record? Not that I'm so ashamed of what I did, not _that_ much, but I know what Lucius is like, and I'm sure that if he learned of my account he would accuse me of slander."

" _Is_ it slander?" asked Kingsley somewhat amusedly.

"It's the truth," said Arthur hotly, his ears reddening. He then proceeded to recount the events of his encounter with Lucius Malfoy, and their subsequent brawl in the bookstore. Kingsley pressed Arthur for details when he mentioned Lucius taking one of Ginny's books, and he nodded attentively at the various points of the monologue.

"So he put the book back himself, after the engagement?" Kingsley clarified. "Of his own accord?"

"Well, I suppose so," said Arthur with a shrug. "Even Lucius isn't petty enough to steal a little girl's school supplies just to spite her father."

"Uh-huh. And what was the book, precisely? Did you notice anything about it?" Kingsley asked.

"Well, I was—rather flustered, you understand," Arthur answered, nervously scratching his cheek. "I, er, didn't pay much attention to that."

"It was _A History of Magic_ ," Molly spoke up, still looking a touch peevish over the recounting of what she viewed as her husband's disgraceful behavior. "Although I am at a loss to see how this is relevant. You were asking Ginny about a diary, and where she got it? Well, I can tell you for certain that we did not buy her any such thing." Her expression softened a little as she looked at her daughter. "We might have, if I'd thought she wanted one, but we were, well..."

She trailed off with a vague, somewhat evasive gesture.

Ginny looked curiously at her parents, and at Kingsley, as if something had just faintly dawned on her. At the mention of the book Lucius Malfoy had taken from the cauldron, and then returned, she had acquired a distinctly pensive expression. At the identification of the book, and her mother's clear denial of their having bought a diary, that expression had darkened with something like worry or doubt.

At length, rather suddenly, Ginny spoke up.

"Why do you want to know about my diary?" she asked.

Kingsley did not answer immediately. He eyed Ginny thoughtfully, and it was perfectly evident that a great number of careful considerations were passing behind his eyes. At last, he spoke.

"It has become an object of considerable interest to our investigation," he said deliberately.

"You said you hadn't read it," Molly said. "Or do you mean you think there's something written in there about Scabbers that we haven't already told you?"

"I don't think there is anything written in the diary," said Kingsley. "Or at least nothing of interest. Frankly, even if that diary had not been in your daughter's possession, or in any way even remotely connected with Pettigrew, it would still be an object of interest."

"How so?" queried Arthur with a shrewd look. "Surely it's just a _book_. I'd think my own daughter would be able to recognize if her diary had any enchantments so questionable that they would interest the Auror Office."

Ginny fidgeted noticeably.

"Is this about—about _Tom?_ " she asked abruptly, a very worried look on her face.

Kingsley gave her a strange look.

"In a sense," he said. "Although I must wonder how much you could possibly know about him. If there had been anything written in there that could point to his identity, I should like to you would have immediately turned it over to your parents, or else to Professor Dumbledore."

"I... I'm not sure I understand," Ginny said, now frowning. "Maybe it's a little suspicious how he taught me that spell, but he must have known the truth, and—and been afraid I wouldn't believe him if he told me—that's why he wanted me to do it with a teacher present, I'm sure. He just wanted to _help_."

All of the adults in the room looked either confused, concerned, or a mixture of the two.

"We're talking about a diary, Ginny..." said Molly slowly, giving her daughter a very maternal look. "Not a person. Not unless you mean the diary itself was—" She cut off suddenly, as if struck with an ill premonition, and turned to look at Arthur and Kingsley.

"Tom's not a bad person," Ginny insisted a little loudly. "I know it looks suspicious, but he's been so nice to me. There must be a mistake. What does Tom have to do with anything?"

"You learned the homorphus charm from... from this diary?" Arthur interrupted, as though he had only just finished parsing this thought. "You didn't read it in there, but the diary itself _taught_ you the spell?"

"I write to him," Ginny said quietly. "And he writes back. He's very nice, and he knows lots of things."

Kingsley looked shaken at this remark, and that did not escape the notice of the others. He looked at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore peered questioningly into his eyes. Kingsley felt legilimency probe at his shields like a soft knock on the door of his mind, and he pushed the relevant information forward to greet the man. Dumbledore perceived what Kingsley wanted to share, took it in, and then withdrew.

This exchange took only a couple of seconds. But the change that came over the headmaster seemed to take an age as his face hardened against betrayal of his own thoughts, and his eyes swept over the other occupants of the room in a bright glance tinged by worry.

Dumbledore looked at Ginny longest, resting his eyes on the girl. She turned as if she felt his gaze, and she met his eyes. Somehow, she saw in the man's glanced what she had refused to fathom in all her interactions with the diary, and she cast her face down in shame.

"I should have told," she said at length, sounding miserable.

"You should have," said Dumbledore kindly. "But do not blame yourself. You are young, with many fears and worries. Witches and wizards both mouch older and cleverer than yourself have been taken in by the charming ways of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Ginny started at Dumbledore's use of Tom's full name.

"You know him?" she blurted out. For an instant there was a flash of eagerness in her eyes, a hope to learn more about Tom, and to come closer to him. But then it passed, and she withdrew once more into herself, blushing and looking abashed.

Dumbledore looked uncharacteristically grim.

"I knew him," he said slowly. "I would not flatter myself to say—that is, to assume that I _know_ him still in any meaningful sense. He shares confidence with no one, and tells nothing of his mind to others. It grieves me to think you were in contact with him, even if only through an enchanted diary."

Although he said _enchanted_ , his eyes could not wholly conceal a deeper and far more sinister meaning. Ginny did not read this, but Arthur and Molly both saw it.

"Who..." they said slowly, nearly as one. "...who is Tom Riddle?"

There was a moment of silence.

One word was Dumbledore's answer, spoken with a glance at Kingsley, and a nod. One word. Yet such was the horror and dismay in the eyes of the Weasleys and their daughter that he might as well have pointed a wand at them and recited the incantion of the Killing Curse.

Demons could be invoked who would not elicit a fraction of this fear, heathen gods of cruelty and destruction who tormented man in days of darkness. French it was, of dubious construction and questionable intent, yet if the component sounds would mean nothing apart or differently ordered, when chained together as they were in this precise sequence, they provoked a reaction of such simultaneously profound and visceral revulsion and dismay as no other conceivable utterance could have caused.

" _Voldemort,_ " he said, and no gentleness or tact could soften the blow of this horrible statement.

Molly choked, and Arthur seized at his wand, and poor young Ginevra went nearly catatonic.

"Wh-What...?" she whispered, her eyes going wide and her cheeks turning white.

Kingsley nodded sadly.

"Alastor said the same thing," he said.

"Yes, he would be one of the few besides myself able to make that connection," said Dumbledore. "I'm sorry," he added to Ginny and her parents. "If it were possible, I think we should have avoided so dreadful an announcement, but it could scarcely be helped."

He looked at Kingsley, then. A brief and silent communication passed between the two.

_This is barely enough evidence to get the one you suspect._

_It will have to suffice, I fear._

_Good luck._

And the eyes of Albus Dumbledore and Kingsley Shacklebolt broke once more apart. Kingsley turned to leave the office, and Dumbledore focused his attention on the three Weasleys.

Kingsley heard the headmaster comforting the trio as he departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you guys like this chapter. :D
> 
> Updated: 6-13-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


	16. Chapter 16

The office of the Minister of Magic was very fine, possessing all the amenities one would expect to be made available to the leader of magical Britain. He had self-replenishing bottles of ink in every color, auto-correcting quills of the finest quality, sheafs of parchment and tomes of reference on every subject imaginable. Moreover, there were many little luxuries of the sort to which true Britons were often so weak.

It is reasonable to say that one can tell something of a man's character by the state and fashion of his places of work and habitation. While most of the above mentioned belonged to the office itself and Cornelius, there was much else brought by and belonging to Fudge alone. There were snack trays, velvet cushions, fine china tea sets, and a trunk enchanted to serve as a walk-in wine cellar. Fudge was quite reasonably fond of wine, although he had little judgement for quality and generally esteemed a bottle more by its price tag than by its taste, year, or vintage.

Apart from this there were many other small decorations that he had brought into the office when it became his. Little of the decor could be called specially gaudy, but neither could much of it be called really fine. The art pieces were mostly of a kind that seemed good at a cursory glance but under a closer, more critical inspection would betray many small flaws or defects, or even deeper, underlying inadequacies of craft and style in their production.

 _'Tacky'_ might serve as a good descriptor. A certain superficiality was apparent in all Fudge's attempts at presenting an air of sophistication and class. In the eye of a critic, this would seem appropriate to the man. Fudge was wholly mediocre as Ministers went, a wizard of good but not exceptional qualifications, who'd had high grades in school and good work performance but no particular accolades. Relatively few awards from before his ministerial appointment could be found in Fudge's office, for he had received very few worth bragging about.

Fudge was not the choice most would have made for minister. He was not a bad sort by any means, but... well, while he had the natural share of virtues native to every human born, alongside the concomitant and contesting vices, in both virtue and vice he was altogether lukewarm.

 _Inoffensive_ was one of the most honest and generous compliments one could give Fudge.

He had not been anyone's first choice for Minister of Magic, and few had counted him as even their second choice. He was at most generous the third-best option on a very scant menu. The lobster dinner was unavailable, Dumbledore declining the office for the umpteenth time, and the shepherd pie was spoilt with all that controversy around old Bartemius Crouch. So the unenthusiastic wizarding public had to settle for the cheap fish and chips of ordinary, unexceptional Cornelius Fudge.

There was nothing fundamentally _wrong_ with him, certainly. At his fitting level and in his natural station Fudge did very well for himself. His work had always been sufficiently good and reliable, and he had risen through the ranks as much through the ebb and flow of discharge and promotion as by his own qualifications.

Admittedly he had been no hero in the war, nor had he done himself any particular credit in the troubled days after, except by keeping his head down and staying out of trouble. But that was not necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, although never the most competent of administrators, he'd been good at avoiding danger, and with no real scandals tied to his career and many years of respectable service to his credit besides, he had become Minister of Magic after Bagnold's retirement.

By all accounts, Fudge had done little to distinguish himself in the intervening years. He was pleasant and affable in his own way, and suited well enough to the duties of a peacetime minister, content to sit in his chair and look important while the ponderous, convoluted machinery of the wizarding bureaucracy ran itself. Fudge was neither masterful or particularly intelligent. At best he was reasonably charismatic, good enough at playing politics, and sufficiently smart at least to know when the input of a superior intellect would be warranted.

This turn of events right now was beyond any doubt just such an occasion.

Unfortunately, the advice of Albus Dumbledore was outside Fudge's reach at this time, so he had to settle for what he could muster of his own native wit and cunning. He had a fair share of this, certainly, but the quality of his processes often left something to be desired.

Fudge sat behind his desk. On his face he wore an expression that was half fretful, half impatient.

"I must say, Madam Bones, that I'm not very happy with all the fuss your aurors have been causing," he said to the imposing, square-jawed head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "I understand a need to do your jobs, but is this really the best time for such a ruckus? My inbox has been flooded over some article in yesterday morning's paper. Goodness only knows _why._ I'm Minister of Magic, not editor for the Daily Prophet!"

"You have my sympathies," said Amelia Bones, speaking diplomatically enough. "I suppose it's concerned friends of Lucius Malfoy writing? Rita Skeeter was as libelous as ever, from what I saw. I can't help the timing of these occurences, however. The matters I'm here about have only just surfaced, and I can hardly postpone them for the sake of convenience."

"Of course..." said Fudge distractedly. "Yes, to think Peter Pettigrew was alive... it boggles the mind! I was there at the crime scene, you know, after they arrested Black. Dreadful affair. Couldn't sleep for a week afterward. It's hardly my concern what Pettigrew has been doing in hiding, though, even if he is an illegal animagus. That's a matter for Misuse of Magic Office, or the DMLE.

"But this matter about the paper really is preposterous. What does it matter to me whether or not Lucius's boy called one of his classmates the M-word? I admit it's an eye-opener to hear of the man's sympathies, or at least of how deep they seem to run... but true or not it's hardly any affair of mine."

"Indeed, it is hardly a matter for the Minister of Magic," chimed in Dolores Umbridge, the undersecretary. "Let Lucius Malfoy sue the paper for libel if he thinks they have misrepresented him and his family. I find it suspicious how strongly he objects, though."

In the back of her mind, Bones mused that Umbridge would likely express much the same sentiment if the man had made no response to the article, and would have treated that as an implicit admission of guilt. Whether she sincerely believed this or simply parroted the beliefs of her far too credulous superior was hard to say. Fudge, though, was clearly perturbed by the suggestions made in Skeeter's article, and he obviously took what had been written at face value.

Amelia found it fascinating, in a way, to see how easily people could be swayed this way or that by the media. This was not wholly unfair, admittedly, in the case of Lucius. Bones had a cordial dislike toward the man, herself, for he was of a kind that did not much endear itself to honest, diligent people with good moral fiber. But he was wealthy, and well-spoken when he wanted to be, and he had a lot of powerful allies. Fudge had been one of them, at least until recently.

"It is not your job to interview Pettigrew, certainly," Bones said, addressing the minister with a patient nod. "But it is _my_ job, and as you saw in my memo I have chosen to exert my authority as head of Magical Law Enforcement to authorize the use of veritaserum for interrogation. According to regulations, the minister and the Wizengamot must be informed before I do this. I have already sent an owl to Dumbledore."

"You want to use veritaserum?" said Fudge. "On... Peter Pettigrew? Do you really think this is necessary?"

"It is efficacious, at least," said Bones briskly. "He certainly knows more than he says, and my aurors believe this might be a very important matter to address. Pettigrew's behavior has been suspicious enough to warrant considerable scrutiny. It may even be necessary to reopen Sirius Black's case, depending on what we uncover."

"Black's case?" said Fudge. He frowned anxiously. "Really, now... that would _certainly_ be a waste. He's guilty beyond a doubt. What can you possibly think to uncover?"

Umbridge nodded sycophantically. Bones hummed.

"Maybe nothing," she said. "Or maybe a good deal of things. At this point the latter seems more likely. In any case, we have nothing to lose for _trying_."

Fudge shook his head in a vaguely exasperated sort of way. He waved a hand.

"Yes, fine, whatever you wish," he said distractedly, clearly still in a bother. "If you would be so kind, Dolores."

Umbridge nodded sycophantically and bustled over to a drawer. Withdrawing a sheet of parchment with a convoluted legal form set out on its surface and procuring a quill, she proceeded to fill out a number of fields on the sheet. Bones watched absently as Umbridge did this.

"Thank you," she said to the minister.

"Of course, of course. It's best to do this all legally," said Fudge dismissively, sounding once more rather distracted. Anxiously he sifted through a pile of letters for several moments, looking ill-content. Under his breath, he tiredly muttered: "But _Merlin_ , this is a nightmare. Hardly my job to deal with it... don't see why _I_ should be bothered, frankly..."

Umbridge, finishing with the paperwork, handed Madam Bones a copy of the form she had just filled out. Its twin she set aside either for reference or archival.

Amelia looked over the form in her hand briefly, and she glanced sidelong at Fudge and Umbridge. The former was looking terribly harassed, while the latter was now sorting through the letters Fudge discarded. Speaking very lightly, she added:

"Just so you know, we may receive a good deal many more complaints from friends of Lucius Malfoy, before the day is through."

"How so?" asked Fudge. His head snapped up, a disheartened expression on his face.

"You know about the recent fuss in the Department of Mysteries?" said Bones.

"I think I've heard something along those lines. Why do you ask?" said Fudge, narrowing his eyes.

"My aurors found a bit of extremely dark magic during their investigation of the Pettigrew affair, you see," said Amelia. "Magic they believe to be connected with You-Know-Who."

Fudge turned ghastly white, and Umbridge started suddenly.

"Do they have any proof of that?!" Fudge squeaked.

"It's only circumstantial evidence at present," Amelia said. "But it's compelling nonetheless. This is horrendously dark magic, you see, and frightfully complex. I understand the Death division of the Department of Mysteries to be studying it closely. And as for how it came to be where we found it... well, some suspicions have been cast toward Lucius Malfoy."

"Suspicions," repeated Umbridge, frowning as her paunchy cheeks reddened. "What kinds of suspicions?"

"Serious ones," said Amelia. "This object was found in the possession of a first year who believed it to be an enchanted diary. It could think—it was _alive_ , and capable of conversing with her, and instructing her in very complex magic. That was where she learned the Homorphus Charm that she used on Pettigrew, apparently."

"And how does this connect with Lucius?" said Fudge quickly, looking perturbed. "You shouldn't make unfounded accusations. If you have reason to suspect the man..."

"We strongly suspect him to have put this object in the girl's possession," Amelia replied. "He had both the motive and opportunity to do so, and considering this artefact's apparent nature... well, Dumbledore himself identified the name on the diary as belonging to You-Know-Who."

"Lucius was cleared of those associations," said Umbridge officiously, somewhat regaining her composure.

"Yet the present evidence is rather against him," said Amelia. "At the very least, he has a clear motive."

Fudge looked ruefully at the stack of letters on his desk.

"Can you prove this?" he asked. "Are you _certain_ Lucius is the one? If you're wrong and you apprehend him..."

He trailed off, the ' _we'll never hear the end of it'_ going unsaid.

"It would be easy to prove or disprove," said Bones slowly, carefully, "if I were permitted to administer veritaserum."

Fudge looked at her with dismay.

"You're pushing this rather hard," he said. "One thing to authorize its use on Pettigrew, but for Lucius Malfoy? Dear me, I can already hear his friends howling for blood."

"Why should they?" said Bones reasonably. "Veritaserum is not infallible, certainly, and it can be countered by skillful wizards—but this places uncertainty only on _innocence_. If a person can fight the effects of veritaserum, normally they would make their statements as unincriminating as possible. If they do not, and instead say something which seriously implicates them, then presumably the potion works and they're telling the truth. You can't engineer a false confession with veritaserum."

Fudge frowned.

"I still don't think they'd be happy about it," he said.

"They wouldn't," Bones agreed. "But if we get a confession, or even just a helpful lead..."

"And if you _don't?_ " said Umbridge sharply. "Excuse my presumption if I am speaking out of line, Madam Bones—" she added, now using that nauseatingly saccharine tone she so dearly loved to adopt. "—but if nothing comes of that interrogation, and Lucius is proven innocent, I cannot imagine he will be very happy. He contributes a great deal to the Ministry. It would be a terrible loss if he withdrew his support."

Fudge shivered. He was clearly perturbed by this notion.

"You read that article in the paper," said Bones simply, shrugging. "By itself, perhaps, it's nothing substantial... but put together with recent events it _is_ undeniably suspicious."

Umbridge paused and shot a look at Fudge, as if desiring to gauge his reaction before saying anything herself. Dolores was shrewd, and quite good at ingratiating herself to the wealthy and powerful. She was a conniving yes-man who thrived in the world of cold and impersonal politic, almost never openly expressing any opinion directly contrary to that of her superiors.

Bones did not particularly like Umbridge. Mostly she put this down to personal taste. Amelia Bones had never been especially 'girly' herself, and while not averse to cuteness within reason, the excessively twee and frilly tastes of Dolores Umbridge had always somewhat grated on her nerves. Yet there was also a certain reptilian insincerity about the woman that bothered her on a more basic, if less obvious level.

Amelia looked at Fudge also. Cornelius seemed indecisive. He was credulous to the point of borderline gullibility when it came to what he read, and however much he usually trusted Lucius Malfoy, it could not be denied that he was in some ways very impressionable. But he was also loth to abandon so generous a contributor, or incur the displeasure of such a tightly knit bloc as Lucius had about him.

"What kind of dark magic are we talking about?" he asked at length, looking with squinted eyes at Bones. "This artefact of yours."

Bones grimaced.

"It is objective proof that You-Know-Who cannot be dead, if its suspected connection to him is right," she said, wording it as delicately as possible. "It's not merely _dark_ the way the Unforgivable Curses are. This thing is contains the most abhorrent sorts magic ever devised by wizardkind."

"It's... _proof_ You-Know-Who isn't dead, you say?" Fudge said. "Could you be, er, clearer?"

There was a brief, pregnant silence. You could have heard a pin drop.

"Do you know what a horcrux is, Minister?" Bones asked.

Fudge blinked. Umbridge frowned.

Both looked perplexed.

"Pardon?" said Fudge. "Er, no, I don't think I'm familiar with the term."

"Then you are innocent of just how far a wizard can sink," said Bones grimly, shaking her head. "I wouldn't be the one to rob you of that sweet ignorance if I had a choice."

Cornelius faltered, taken quite aback by Amelia's tone and language. It perturbed him more than a little to hear this solid, down-to-earth witch speaking so dramatically.

"Oh. It's that bad, is it...?" he said weakly.

"I assure you," said Bones. "It's even worse than you think.

Umbridge looked a little impatient. She coughed airily.

" _Hem, hem_."

"Yes?" said Bones, looking at Umbridge.

"Just to be clear, Madam Bones," said Umbridge in a tone that practically oozed skepticism. "Are you saying that this artefact of yours proves He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to still be alive? I must say..."

Bones shook her head, cutting the other woman off before she could continue.

"I didn't say _alive_ ," she whispered darkly.

"And yet you say he isn't _dead_ ," replied Umbridge, a hint of curt disdain behind her words. "He _must_ be alive, then, unless you have mispoken."

"I haven't mispoken. I meant every word I said," was Bones's response. "He isn't alive, I don't think, not at presently, but—he can't be dead. Not if this object is his." She gestured in the air. "It's difficult to explain. Are you familiar with the concept of a _lich?_ "

Fudge and Umbridge nodded slowly, frowning.

"Yes, I think I've heard of it," said Fudge slowy. "Isn't that some sort of, er, inferius?

"Not exactly," said Amelia. "The lich does belong to the class of undead creatures, but it's no ordinary reanimated corpse. It is the rarest and perhaps most _dangerous_ of all undead. Liches retain complete free will, for one thing. They are also self-made, for another, and theoretically retain all of the magical powers they had in life.

"Theoretically _._ Very few actual liches have ever been reliably documented, and most of those were in far off lands or ancient times. But the idea is a very old one, and it's seen many variations around the world. Even muggles have some notion of it. You know the story of the Warlock's Hairy Heart, I'm sure?"

"Who doesn't?" said Fudge. Umbridge nodded in agreement, looking slightly displeased by the mention of that rather gruesome tale.

"Well, then of course you know how the warlock in the story removes his heart and puts it in a chest," Bones continued. "This is essentially how a lich functions. They remove a critical part of their being into a guarded, external vessel—in this case called a phylactery. But rather than of immunity from love, the desired result of this procedure is immortality."

Umbridge stared incredulously.

" _Immortality?_ " she repeated, every syllable dripping with disbelief. "Really, now! You aren't saying He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has removed his heart and put it in a diary, are you? That is simply absurd."

"So it is," said Bones. "It's not the heart that gets taken out, when talking about a horcrux. It's a piece of soul."

Fudge stared for a long, silent moment.

"But—That can't be possible!" he finally protested. "If you could live forever just by putting a bit of your soul into something, then everyone would do it, wouldn't they?"

"Not everyone," said Bones. "Not, I think, even if it really was as simple and inoffensive as you make it sound. But very few people would go through with creating a horcux. **Very** few. Certainly no one with any vestige of human decency.

"You must understand that this is the _darkest_ of dark magic. The least reprehensible stage of creating a horcrux—the _least_ reprehensible—is killing someone in cold blood to rip apart the soul. And the person who does this can't feel remorse. Guilt mends the soul, you see, pulls it back together regardless of how you might try to partition it. People who feel guilty about killing are spiritually sound. People who _don't_ feel that guilt become divorced from their own humanity. Like the warlock in the story they become fundamentally alien, growing twisted and inhuman.

"And that's just the first step of the procedure. It gets infinitely worse from there. Only a monster could go through with creating a horcrux. There are very few witches or wizards whom I would condemn as capable of doing this magic unrepentantly—which is the only way that it _can_ be done without undoing itself. And You-Know-Who is at the top of that very, very short list."

Fudge gulped, having gone virtually chalk white.

"So... this artefact is a horcrux?" he said slowly. "And you believe Lucius Malfoy to have had something to do with it?"

"We believe he planted it on the student in whose belongings it was found," said Bones.

"This is... this is a very serious accusation," Fudge said.

"I know. That's why I've submitted notice of my intent to use veritaserum."

Fudge shook his head, muttering something to himself under his breath.

"Very well. Do what you like!" he said almost despairingly, throwing his hands up. "But do try not to involve me in this if it gets bungled."

"You know me better than that, Minister," said Amelia Bones crisply. "I don't _bungle_."

And turning, she left the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aiya, this took me a while to finish... been doing commissions and other stuff, and work... well, work has been as it always is.
> 
> On a semi-related note, I've recently set up a Patreon account. EvilFuzzy9, same as here. There's not much to it, thus far, aside from a bit of smut. But if you enjoy my work, maybe you could head on over and support it? If nothing else, I've been hankering to write original stuff lately, even if only in short story format.
> 
> You can get a free commission from it, if nothing else.
> 
> Updated: 7-11-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


End file.
